


Sticky

by WhatIfImaMermaid



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, As One Does, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, Fuckbuddies, Fuckbuddies To Lovers, Jim and Nyota get married, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining Spock, Slow Burn, Spock-style, but subtly, characters snarking each other into bed, ish, mostly written while staring at pictures of karl urban
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-25 14:12:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10765878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatIfImaMermaid/pseuds/WhatIfImaMermaid
Summary: McCoy just stands in front of the empty biobed, wiping at his face.Messy.That’s what this whole thing is becoming.Messy. Never hook up with the Vulcan First Officer of the goddamn ship you’re stationed on, or your life will become as sticky as molasses. A cautionary tale by Leonard H. McCoy, MD.ORIt's a special kind of hell, when your best friend decides to get married with your nemesis' best friend, and you both end up being best men at the wedding. McCoy and Spock know something about it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ~~This is not a WIP, but since I can't edit more than 5/6k words a pop without feeling like I'm dying slowly I'll post it over the next few days, depending on how much time I spend on things I'm actually supposed to be doing:) In the meantime, I'm[here](https://what-if-im-a-mermaid.tumblr.com). ~~~~~~  
> This is now complete:)

He should have known.

He should have sped up and hurried off as soon as he heard, “Psst.”

He’s the ship’s chief physician, for Christ’s sake. He’s supposed to be running around, delivering triplets and regrowing blown-off livers. He wouldn’t even need to make up an excuse.

And who the hell says ‘psst’ anymore, anyway?

Jim Kirk, of course.

“Bones! This way.”

‘This way’ is in a conference room right off the Med Bay, so underutilized that McCoy has never stepped foot inside it, and he’s been CMO of this space tin can for going on five years.

It doesn’t bode well.

Jim’s furtive, beckoning hand gesture bodes even worse.

Oh, boy.

McCoy heads for the room, making his eye-roll as visible as humanly possible. The last time Jim lead him somewhere trying to be stealthy, it was at the Academy and he was hiding a bunch of Klabnian eels in their shared bathtub. For breeding.

The conference room is, surprisingly, not deserted.

“Leonard,” Uhura greets him with a large smile and an unusual twinkle in her eyes. It’s stunning, of course, just like everything else about Uhura. Still, as the number of people involved in whatever shenanigans Jim has planned increases, McCoy feels his sense of dread intensify. Exponentially.

It skyrockets and reaches asymptote when he notices Spock sitting next to her, doing that thing he does professionally well, which is completely ignoring McCoy while simultaneously looking at him as if he just crawled out from under a rock smelling like feces. Seems like it should be an impossible feat, but Spock has mysterious talents.

Goddammit, he should have just hurried off.

He crosses his arms on his chest and turns to Jim. “What’d you do, Jim?”

Jim gives him his best _What!? Me!?_ baby-blue look and claps him over the shoulder. They both remain standing, a few feet from where Spock and Uhura are seated.

“Sooo, since we have the two of you here with us…” Jim looks at Nyota, as if asking for approval, and she gives him a brief nod and small smile. It’s been months, and yet it still feels new, to see them like this, to know that there is a space between them McCoy has no access to, after playing the mediator for so long back at the Academy, and sometimes even later. After years of seeing Jim get wasted and blabber on and on _and on_ about how smart, and beautiful, and good at languages she was, and plot increasingly reckless and counterproductive ways to get her attention. “We have an announcement.”

McCoy smiles. “Well, well. You don’t say. Congratulations.”

Jim frowns. “What? You don’t even know what the announcement is.”

McCoy shrugs. “Of course I do. You’re getting married.” He bends to kiss Nyota on the cheek. She hugs him tighter that he’d have expected, her laugh ringing pleasantly in his ears. “Pretty elementary to deduce, since _I_ probably would have told _her_ if she was pregnant.”

Jim’s eyes narrow. “It could be all kinds of things. We could be… I don’t know. Adopting a kid.”

“Nah. You’d be needing about twelve mental health certificates from the CMO.”

“We could be adopting a kitten.”

“Ha. You need like thirty more for that.”

Mainly to shut him up, he pulls Jim closer by the shoulder and hugs him, too. This is not half as bad as it could have turned out to be. No mortal wounds, or wild beasts, or pranks to cantankerous admirals involved, for once. No space jumps, either. Just his best friend, getting married, and yeah, marriage is nothing but its own terrible kind of space jump, but Jim and Nyota know what they’re doing. They’ll be fine.

McCoy’s busy congratulating himself for always expecting the worst, as it tends to leave room for pleasant surprises, when he hears Spock speak for the first time since he entered the room.

“I wish to offer my congratulations, as well.” He adds something in Vulcan that has Nyota tear up a bit and enfold his hand in both of hers, and Jim’s grin widen. Probably something about how they make a logical couple that will live long, and prosper, and stuff.

“Wait, this is not the announcement. I mean, it’s part of it, but…” When Nyota is happy, McCoy noticed a long time ago, she tends to gesticulate a lot more than usual. “It will be a very, very small affair, and we’ll probably have a larger ceremony once the mission is over and we’re back to Earth. But for now…” She trails off and smiles at Jim.

“Bones, Spock. Will you be our best men?” He cocks his head, suddenly glancing at Spock, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “Or, you know. Not necessarily men. Vulcan works, too. Or, half-Vulcan. Not that there is anything…” He takes one deep breath and looks at Nyota, who nods encouragingly while trying not laugh. “Will you be witnesses at our wedding?”

McCoy knew he should have fucking hurried away.

 

~

 

It’s not as if he can say no.

It’s not as if he _wants_ to say no. Jim’s his best friend, and the biggest, fattest, longest-standing thorn in his side, and the idea of dislodging him to hand him off to Uhura is a little more heartwarming than his Georgia-spawned notions of masculinity allow him to admit. Plus, if he was there for Jim stealing Nyota’s shirt and cradling it his sleep, taking four consecutive semesters of Andorian phonology, and naming his stinky gerbil Chomsky in her honor, he might as well be present for the grand finale, and pretend not to shed a tear or two since he’s there.

He is tempted, though. To just say that he can't do it, that he’ll be busy fixing broken arms and giving urinary tract exams for the whole two days of shore leave they plan to use for the ceremony. That he needs to do another inventory count of the Med Bay, which is actually true. That he has PTSD from his own nightmare of a marriage and just can’t cope with weddings anymore. Sorry.

And really, it’s all Spock’s fault. Spock, with his raised eyebrow and his smug, superior attitude and his way of looking at him like he’s ridiculous and… illogical, or something. Which McCoy should not be giving a shit about, because he a grown-ass man with zero tender sensibilities.

And he doesn’t care. He’s been a doctor for ten years, in space for about five, and he has been insulted, shot at, and bled onto more times than he can count. Some logical disdain casually thrown at him is not going to get him all put out. Besides, this is just the way Spock is, he has told himself. Repeatedly.

“It’s just the way Spock is,” Jim has told him, too. Repeatedly. “He doesn’t really hate you or anything. It’s his way of fucking with people. Vulcan-style.”

Except that it’s not. It’s true that Spock can be argumentative, in a pedantic if not confrontational way. It’s true that he’s more smartass than Vulcan. And yet, within all of that, he’s downright convivial with the rest of crew. He has taken Chekov and his hero worship right under his wing, goes to fencing tournaments with Sulu, has inside jokes with Scotty, and who knows what he and Jim are up to all those hours when they claim to be playing chess.

Which makes him think, the rare times he does think about it, that this is not the way _Spock_ is. That maybe it’s about McCoy. It makes him wonder what changed that made Spock start ignoring him like it’s his job, since they used to have pretty epic arguments until a couple of years ago, and it was kind of their thing, comforting in an infuriating kind of way. God knows McCoy didn’t mind the arguing.

But the indifference. The disregard. The poorly concealed disgust. And the dismissive way he answers to Every. Single. Thing. McCoy says. If he even bothers answering. It’s easy enough not to think of it when Spock’s not around him, but two days basically alone with Spock while the lovebirds are sucking face…

It’s gonna be a long wedding.

 

~

 

Spock really can’t stand him.

McCoy realizes it on the first day.

He has the first inkling when Jim rents a hovercar that is only marginally bigger than a matchbox. It’s him and Spock in the backseat, while Jim in the front seems to only be able to let go of Nyota’s hand if the alternative is crashing the car into a mountain within the next ten seconds.

McCoy wishes Jim had let him drive.

Or Spock.

Or Nyota, really.

Any combination that wouldn’t require him and Spock to be in the backseat, so close that they’re practically touching. Stuff that happens, when you're both six-two and your best friend rents a car purely based on his fiancée’s favorite color. Because he’s whipped.

McCoy doesn’t think Nyota even noticed, because Nyota’s clearly the brains in this power couple.

Meanwhile, Spock is getting cozy with the window, all but climbing on the car door in a very evident effort to place as many inches as possible between himself and McCoy.

 _Okay_.

Yes, McCoy had to take Xenoculture like everyone else, and he knows about Vulcans, and touch, and Vulcans hating touch, but there are about seven layers of clothing between them, because this sure ain’t a June wedding and it’s snowing big, fat, lilac flakes on this planet. It feels like a bit of an overreaction.

Maybe it’s his smell. McCoy tries to remember if he put on deodorant.

“How’re you guys doing back there?” Nyota asks, turning to face them and passing Spock a hand warmer.

“Fine,” McCoy answers, because really, everything else would be both an under and an overstatement. Because fine has variable definitions, as they all have been informed of. Time and time again.

And they probably will be, again. Very soon.

Coming up.

Any second now…

Nyota smiles. “Great.”

When McCoy eyes him, Spock is looking out of the window, clutching his hand warmer.

Ignoring him.

 _Okay, then_.

The second clue comes about six hours later, after they arrive at the quaint resort where the ceremony will take place and find out that the locals’ concept of indoor heating isn’t quite up to par. For a human.

McCoy grudgingly worries about how miserable this can feel for a Vulcan, only to mentally chastise himself. If Spock wants to pretend that McCoy doesn’t exist, two can play that game.

Except that, now that he thinks about it, he did take that Hippocratic oath thing. Which he might stretch a little when it comes to hypo-stabbing Jim, but most times it doesn’t really leave him a choice, and that’s how he finds himself pressing on the doorbell outside of Spock’s room, three spare blankets in his hands.

And that’s what they are. Blankets. Not spider's nests or stool samples. Blankets.

Though you wouldn’t be able to tell, from the look Spock gives him.

“I thank you, Doctor, but I shall not need them.”

“You mean, you're just gonna freeze to death?

He’s not, of course. He couldn’t, conceivably, considering the temperature, and his body structure, and the slightly ridiculous amount of clothes he has put on. McCoy knows it, because med school, and Spock knows it, because science. And two-years-ago Spock would have pointed that out, only to have McCoy reply something like, “yeah, well, don't come crying to me when you have stalactites hanging off your nose,” to which two-years-ago Spock would have retorted that such “is a structural impossibility. But then, you are as talented an architect as you are a doctor,” and McCoy would have narrowed his eyes and tried to choke him with the blankets.

Now-Spock, however, just stares somewhere behind McCoy's shoulder, as if the sheer existence of McCoy’s face were tremendously offensive to him, and repeats, “I am grateful for your concern, but I will not need your blankets, Doctor,” and nods politely, closing the door in his face.

 _Okay_.

The worst comes after the ceremony.

Which is lovely. Jim can’t stop staring at Nyota with a spellbound expression, and she looks so happy that McCoy doesn’t even mind that he’s wearing his dress uniform, which is way too tight around his shoulders, and that it’s negative three degrees Celsius. At the very highest.

Jim stumbles a bit with his vows, and swallows audibly several times, and is that his hand shaking when he puts the wedding band on Nyota’s finger? McCoy thinks of his family back home, of himself and all his sisters who got married with a million guests and twelve maids of honor each, and maybe it’s because here it’s just the four of them, or maybe it’s that these two are so nakedly, _embarrassingly_ in love, but he feels a bit like he’s intruding, and he’s weirdly relieved that it’s just a small affair.

He averts his eyes and catches Spock’s face, which is… soft. In awe, maybe.

Months ago, when Nyota and Jim started what they initially referred to as they _thing_ , McCoy was shocked by the fact that Nyota and Spock were still so close, touching and exchanging looks and talking intensely all the time. To be precise, he was astonished that Jim seemed to be cool with it, since they appeared to be bringing the whole ‘stay friends with your ex’ thing to a whole new level, and had asked him about.

“I don't think anyone wants this to work out more than Spock does,” Jim had answered him.

Which McCoy had doubted, at the time, but now it actually seems possible, because the Vulcan looks as if a great wish of his has been granted. And yeah, it’s hard not be touched when Jim is practically assaulting a very giggly Nyota in front of the flustered native justice, and it's impossible to be mad when, without even saying goodbye, he picks up his wife and whisks her away to their freezing room. To warm her up, presumably.

Impossible, really.

Except.

Except that this leaves McCoy alone with Spock and a wedding banquet laid out for ten or so that was apparently included in the price. Spock, who yeah, okay, doesn’t like McCoy much, but there’s something looking remarkably like booze and plenty of vegetables, and they can be civil for the time it’ll take them to stuff their faces, right?

Wrong.

As soon the happy couple is out of the door, any trace of emotion is wiped from Spock’s eyes. He turns to thank the still flushed justice in his native language (and when did he learn that?), and then makes his way for the very same door Jim carried Nyota out of.

“Hey,” McCoy yells after him. “You’re not going to eat? You couldn’t freeze to death, so now you’re starving yourself?”

Spock doesn’t even turn.

“I require no nourishment at this time. Goodnight, Doctor.”

Having been under phaser fire, divorced from more or less unwillingly, and even kidnapped by the Romulans, once, McCoy balks at calling this hurtful.

The fact remains that Spock’s one rude son of a bitch, and McCoy’s done trying.

 

~

 

If they had been on the ship, McCoy would have let it go.

Spock acting like a jerk and alternating between looks of barely contained revulsion and arctic coldness is not news. Not anymore, at least. The Enterprise’s a big ship, and believe or not, there are people who actually don’t mind sitting down and having a meal or a chat with McCoy, which makes it easier to dismiss Spock’s eyes skirting around his face with massive contempt, or his painfully straight posture, or the fact that even though they are the exact same height, which McCoy knows because he checked the Vulcan’s goddamn file, Spock always seems to manage to look down on him.

But here.

Here’s just the two of them, with Jim and Nyota having marathon sex and clearly not intending to come out of their room more than twenty minutes before they absolutely need to drive back to the beam-up place. So McCoy has more free time than he wants to think about Spock being a jerk to him, and the next time he sees the Vulcan, which is right outside of their rooms, he flips a bit.

In his defense, he’s provoked. Spock is clearly coming back from a run, and McCoy is heading out for a walk, and when they’re in front of each other the best that Spock can muster in reply to McCoy’s “Hey, Spock. How are you doing?” is a curt nod before making a beeline his door.

No, ‘How am I doing… what?’

No, ‘Acceptable, thank you, Doctor.’

Nothing.

Which is why McCoy grabs him by the wrist (above his thermic short, because yes, he did take Xenoculture) and holds him back.

Spock stares at the place where McCoy’s hand is gripping him and looks _appalled_. Almost comically.

McCoy tries not to laugh and harnesses his indignation.

“Ok Spock, let’s cut the crap.” Once he’s reasonably sure Spock’s not going to run away, he lets him go. “What’s up with the avoiding and the cold shoulder?” He tries to keep is tone relaxed, mostly succeeding.

Spock looks again at that spot over McCoy’s shoulder. Maybe he’s sprouting antennas or something. “I do not understand your meaning, Doctor.”

McCoy snorts. “Come on. You act like a have the plague. You can’t have a meal with me. You don’t answer my questions. Hell, we’ve exchanged barely fifty words in two years. During the first year of the mission we had an epic argument over the best reagent to use with hemiketal. It lasted two weeks. I read fifteen papers to back up my positions. And now you can’t bring yourself to tell me good morning.” He stares at Spock for a second. “What’d I do?”

Spock eyes him, expressionless. “You did nothing. I would presume that a reduction in the frequency of our arguments should be considered a positive fact.”

“Not if you’re avoiding me, no.”

Spock inclines his head, that sardonic air of his full on. “I am not avoiding you, Doctor. I am talking with you in this very moment.”

McCoy tries not to roll his eyes, and fails. “You are avoiding engaging in any type of meaningful interaction with me, for sure.”

“I am not doing such th—”

“Really, Spock? Astrology is a science,” he tells him, with his most goading voice.

Spock just looks at McCoy, speechless for a second.

“Well? Anything to say in response to that?”

Spock just shakes his head. He looks like he’s hurting.

“Ok, then. ‘Lieutenant’ is spelled with three _e_ s.”

Spock opens his mouth, then closes it. Keeps it closed.

“Humans only use ten percent of their brain cells.”

Spock sighs, and then purses his lips. Oh, he’s in pain all right.

“I fail to see what you are trying to accomplish, Doctor. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it is three point seven degrees, and I must return to my quart—”

McCoy steps back in front him. Spock could easily shove him away using about one third of his little finger, of course, but McCoy’s banking on the fact that he’s too obviously sickened by him to touch him.

“If anyone else had told you a tenth of what I just did you’d stay and freeze your green-blooded ass out here until you’ve corrected them into oblivion. But it's me, so you're suddenly in a hurry to go back to your room. To watch condensation form on the window, I assume.”

Spock’s straightens his back. A worthy feat, considering that it was pretty straight to begin with. “Perhaps window condensation holds more appeal to me than your company.”

Well, then. McCoy does not recoil. He does not. “Is that so, Mister Spock?”

Silence. With a side dish of glacial look to that special place above his shoulder. At least it matched the temperature.

“And, just out of curiosity, why is my company so distasteful to you?” he asks, hands on his hips.

Spock eyes shifts to McCoy’s, and… it’s not pleasant. This guy really doesn’t like him. And that’s the euphemism of the day. “Doctor, this conversation is as illogical as you are. Kindly allow me to leave.”

Which McCoy should just _do_. For a lot of obvious reasons. Like the fact that he’s a gentlemen, and Spock is clearly repulsed by him, and he’s never been a pleaser anyway, he doesn’t need to be _liked_ , for fuck’s sake, and he has a rewarding, fulfilling life on board on the Enterprise that is made of important things such as saving lives and counseling heaps of people, and he won three biomedical research awards in the past six years while publishing like crazy, once in the fucking New England Journal of Medicine, impact factor two-hundred and goddamn seventy, and he has a family who likes him back home and friends who—

But fuck this shit.

And fuck Spock.

The Vulcan is now walking around him to go back to his quarters, giving him a ridiculously wide berth even though the hallway is pretty narrow. McCoy grabs him by the wrist, this time with zero effort to keep away from skin, and maybe it’s the surprise element, maybe McCoy’s overwhelming his touch telepathy or some other mumbo-jumbo, but Spock actually stops in his tracks and doesn’t even try to wiggle out.

And McCoy, who for all the barking, really does not see himself as a physically aggressive person, because do no harm and all that, now is totally crowding Spock until he’s backed up against the wall, index finger planted obnoxiously in the Vulcan’s chest. When he starts talking at him, there’s probably no more an inch between their faces.

“Listen. If I’m too human and illogical for you that’s fine, I don’t care, despise me in that CPU you have inside your skull, but the least you can do is try to put a lid on it because _your_ best friend and _our_ best friend just got marr—“

He doesn’t even finish the thought.

It was there, on the tip on the tongue a millisecond ago, and now it’s gone. Disappeared. Because…yeah.

It turns out, it’s not just their faces that are less than an inch apart. The rest too, because McCoy got a little belligerent and carried away, and he’s really up close in Spock’s personal space now. Yep. And the hard thing that’s pressing against him, against his left hip to be precise, it’s…

That, inside Starfleet-issued sweatpants that hide _nothing_ , is an erection. McCoy’s pretty sure. Maybe. But yes, it feels like an erection and McCoy should know, because he’s a doctor. And, because he's had his fair share of them, mostly before coming into space and seemingly forgetting that sex is this _thing_ that can be done, and deciding that sleeping and eating and publishing peer-reviewer articles and oh god, staring resentfully at his Vulcan archenemy are all activities better worth of his time.

So he’s pretty sure, but if he needed any more confirmation, he would get some when he glances up from Spock’s chest and into his eyes and… Spock’s flushing. As in, bright green. McCoy has literally held Spock’s internal organs in his hands, and rationally _knows_ that his blood is green, but… wow.

McCoy is basically hugging Spock. Who has an erection. And is blushing. Green.

It’s doesn’t quite compute.

“Please, could you… step back?” Spock swallows audibly. His tone sounds strangely subdued, especially after at least two years of cold and abrasive remarks.

He sounds mortified. Or resigned. Or both.

McCoy steps back.

And now would be a really good time to say something. Something flippant, like ‘what the hell was that?’ or ‘I didn’t know Vulcans got turned on by being manhandled,’ or ‘do you need medical attention?’ Though maybe not the latter, since… yeah.

What McCoy _does_ say, however, is a pitiful “I…” that he’s not sure how to continue from, but it’s not necessary, because Spock, god bless him, interrupts him.

“I apologize.”

McCoy shakes his head automatically. He’s a doctor. Inappropriate erections are his bread and butter. “There is nothing to apologize for.”

Spock is doing that thing McCoy has only seen him do once or twice, which is biting his lower lip without showing any teeth. “Could you... step back further?”

McCoy raises his eyebrow. It seems excessive. There’s at least three feet between them now.

Spock catches McCoy’s derisive expression and elaborates, somewhat hesitantly. “It is… difficult, to think clearly.” He licks his lips, which are getting chapped from the cold. “When you are close,” he adds, mostly studying his running shoes.

And now McCoy’s blushing, probably bright red, and shuffling his feet a little as he retreats. Because he guesses that this nips his burgeoning theory in the bud, that the erection was just a coincidence, that Spock gets turned on by running or by near sub-zero temperatures or by purple snow, and that what just happened has exactly zilch to do with McCoy.

Meanwhile, the silence between them is stretching. Uncomfortably, judging from the way Spock’s arms seem to be hanging uselessly on his sides, and the similarly awkward way McCoy is palming his own neck and trying not to look in front of him.

It’s probably a good time to ask for clarification. Such as, ‘is there a set of correlations between your erection and my presence and the fact that you’ve been acting like an asshole for the past two years?’ or, more informative, ‘is there maybe a causal relationship?’ or, even better, the good old, ‘what the fuck just happened?’

Curious, then, that when McCoy opens his mouth the only thing that comes out is, “So…”

Spock’s eyes close for about two seconds. When he opens them, he looks straight at McCoy. “My behavior was… inappropriate. And I am not just referring to yesterday and today.” He pauses. “In the future, I shall endeavor to be more—”

More… something. McCoy will never know, even though he really wants to, because Jim chooses that moment to come out of his room.

“Hey, guys,” he says in a stage whisper before closing the door behind himself. He’s bare-chested, and McCoy’s eyes fall automatically to his skin, counting about four hickeys that he immediately wishes he could unsee. Damn professional bias. “Do you have any spare blankets? We had an, um, accident with a couple of ours and I wouldn’t want Nyota to get chilly.”

He ignores the whiplash that comes from witnessing Jim T. Kirk being this considerate with a woman, after years of McCoy having to show the door to his one night stands. “Sure. I’ll go get them.”

Though he doesn’t right away. He first glances at Spock, who is still standing stiffly next to him, and he really, really wants to know what he might be telling McCoy in this moment if Jim hadn't interrupted the most awkward and unpleasant conversation in the history of social interaction.

Spock, however, just appears somewhere between relieved and impassive. He nods at McCoy, and then at Jim (a little bit more warmly, McCoy notes, if nodding warmly is even a thing) and then disappears inside his room.

McCoy fetches the blankets.

 


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as the Acting Captain alerts the Med Bay that a couple of the officers returned from the planetside mission have reported injuries that will need to be tended to, McCoy feels a frisson on unease. Not because he's worried, since Sulu's tone sounded unconcerned and cucumber-cool, but because this morning he actually read the ship-wide memo, and is well aware of each member of the landing party.

The common joke around the Med Bay is that the work load will increase about seventy percent any given day Captain Kirk goes on an away mission, or helps negotiate a diplomatic op, or brokers a trade deal, or... gets out bed, really. Truth be told, it's not as if his First Officer is trailing much behind in terms of injury-to-mission ratio.

Though, McCoy has to admit, he does come by half or so of them by shoving Jim out phaser fire, so there’s that.

McCoy is not at all surprised when those two show up, walking side by side, Jim laughing at some comment Spock just made that was probably as dry as a raisin. The sleeves of their uniforms are torn, and they’re clutching wounds on opposite arms that are visibly seeping a not-yet-worrisome amount of blood. They’re both sporting a considerable amount of both red and green smearings on their skin. McCoy briefly wonders if they got injured by crashing against each other. Wouldn’t put it past them.

He plants both feet firmly on the ground and crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, well, well.”

“Hey, bones!” Jim grins and waves casually at him with his uninjured hand, completely covered in a mix of green and dark red. “We missed your truly excellent company and decided to come for a visit.”

McCoy gives him a mocking look. “Is that so? Because I seem to recall you camping in my quarters until three am last night. After I asked you to leave. Repeatedly.”

“You know Nyota doesn't let me play holo games when she’s asleep,” Jim whines.

“Yeah, I wonder why.”

McCoy grabs a tray with the essentials and turns, heading for the biobeds in the back of the Med Bay. No point in doing this near the entrance. He has learned though the years that the crew becomes uneasy, sometimes downright antsy, when they find out that their command team has been injured, no matter how minimally. God knows it happens often enough.

He hears the sound of Jim and Spock’s footsteps behind him, and catches sight of nurse Chapel rummaging in one of the cupboards. They were a having a nice, quiet Beta, before Abbot and Costello showed up.

“Christine, with me as soon as you’re done with that.”

The ‘Yes, Doctor,’ he gets in response is muffled, but still audible.

The three of them have done this enough that they all know the drill, and it's good luck that this time both Captain and First Officer are conscious. It’s the best possible combination, because they can keep each other entertained as McCoy tends to them. Spock, in particular, is disturbingly good at manipulating Jim into being quiet and malleable until McCoy is done with disinfecting and regenerating his gash wound, which is actually worse than he originally thought. Of course. Throughout the whole process, the Vulcan makes comments about Starfleet’s wisdom in sending emissaries to a planet whose first decoded communication had been a promise to feed all visitors from space to giant snails.

Told by anyone else, they would sound like jokes.

Jim snickers, and then he just plain cracks up, and miraculously he doesn’t try to jump off his biobed before the bleeding has even stopped, none the wiser. _These two_ , McCoy thinks, shaking his head. It’s definitely not his fault that after Spock and Uhura broke up he was ready to bet a month’s salary that Jim was going to make a move for the Vulcan. The glimmer in Jim’s eyes was there, no doubt. Just not aimed at Spock, obviously.

When Christine finally joins them, smoothing her blond hair and sneaking glances at the First Officer, McCoy takes pity on the Vulcan and puts her in charge of the second dermal regeneration pass on Jim’s arm, moving to stand in front of Spock’s biobed.

 _This is not weird_ , he tells himself. _Couldn’t be not weirder_.

“Do I wanna know what happened?” he asks, voice pitched low.

“I do not believe so,” Spock answers, matching his tone.

“Thought so.”

“Although the Captain has already recounted a highly embellished version of the events that occurred on the planet to the ensigns manning the transporter controls. He might enjoy a chance to further exaggerate his exploits.”

“I think I’ll pass on that."

Spock nods, unsurprised.

It’s been about three weeks, since… whatever _that_ was. The wedding, he guesses. Yeah, that’s a good way of qualifying the whole thing without qualifying it at all. He and Spock have had approximately two and half exchanges, all in the context of department-head meetings or the party Sulu and Chekov insisted on throwing after they came back from the ceremony. Not enough to notice any significant change in the way he and Spock interact. Or not interact.

However. McCoy doesn’t think that it’s just his impression, that after the… _thing_ , Spock’s hostile attitude towards him has melted considerably. Dissolved, possibly, in the low-key embarrassment that the Vulcan’s eyes seem to perpetually show when their gazes inadvertently catch.

It’s not _good_ , by any means. McCoy wonders if it’s even better than before.

Spock’s wound is marginally less nasty than Jim’s. “Do you need a numbing agent?” he asks while cleaning the area.

“Negative,” Spock replies, staring ahead.

“Suit yourself.” He drops the disinfectant wipe on the tray next to the biobed. “I don't know why I bothered ordering one that's effective on Vulcans, since you insist on just trancing away the pain.” The last part is muttered acerbically while he changes the dermal regenerator settings to take care of the damaged psiceptors. Weird Vulcan skin, and all that.

“Pain is of the mind, Doctor.”

McCoy places the regenerator on the smallest part of Spock’s abrasion and relishes the subtle way he flinches when it’s activated.

“That’s what you get when you’re too cool for numbing agents.”

Spock just closes his eyes.

“Hey, are you hurting my First Officer on purpose, Bones?” A year or so ago, Jim would have been too busy flirting mercilessly with Christine to pay any attention to him or Spock. Nyota really did a number on him.

“No need, since he so damned good at hurting himself.”

Spock’s eyes stay closed. McCoy uses the opportunity to study him, wondering what exactly Spock is trying to block out.

 _It is difficult, to think clearly. When you are close,_ he’d said.

Ten words. That McCoy has thought about more than he likes to admit, in the past three weeks.

 _Why?_ He wishes to ask.

And, _Can you think clearly, now?_

“Hey, how come he didn’t he get a hypo?” Jim’s sullen voice breaches his thoughts.

“’Cause I’m not done with him yet,” he answers, putting the finishing touches to Spock’s newly generated skin. “You know, infant, I’m sure Christine can scrounge up a lollipop or two for you, if you ask her nicely.”

Jim plops down on Spock’s biobed, clearly in need for fresh entertainment, and McCoy mentally reprimands himself for not asking Chapel to draw the whole thing longer. Spock’s eyes remain closed. McCoy sighs and turns to grab the anti-infection hypo, ready to have Jim and his buddy out of his Med Bay.

“So…ready for your date tonight, Bones?”

Two things happen at once.

McCoy sputters. Not comically or exaggeratedly, he doesn’t think. But noticeably.

And Spock’s eyes open suddenly and dart to McCoy’s, who, inexplicably, is currently looking at him, too.

Inexplicably, really, because it’s not as if Spock’s reaction to McCoy having a date is of any relevance. At all.

He turns his attention to Jim. “How do you even know about that?” He asks, half hostile, half resigned.

Jim shrugs and gives him his most innocent grin. “You know. Nyota knows Caroline. And I know Nyota.”

McCoy rolls his eyes. “It’s not a date,” he says, his tone somewhat grouchy. He takes the hypo and positions it to Spock’s neck, carefully ignoring the fact that Spock is pointedly looking anywhere but at McCoy. “It’s just…drinks. You know.” He administers the hypo.

“Well, you could have told me. If it’s just drinks.”

“Why should I even bother? You clearly have your sources.”

“Oh, come on, you like it when I stalk you a bit.”

“I’m positive I don’t.“

He suddenly realizes that his thumb has been absentmindedly caressing the region of Spock’s neck where the hypo went in. McCoy steps back as if burned, refusing to take in the green tinge of Spock’s skin or the fact that he’s pointedly looking at his own knees.

_Shit._

“You’re good to go, Commander. If it’s possible at all, if it doesn’t upset your schedule, if the stars’ alignment is favorable, please, try not to rub your arm with sandpaper for the next couple of hours,” he says irritably. “You too, Jim. And stay out of my business,” he adds.

Jim is still grinning while he makes his way out of the Med Bay with his first officer. If Spock looks back before exiting, and if McCoy’s looking at him in that very moment…McCoy’s sure it’s just a coincidence.

 

~

 

About ninety-five percent of the Enterprise crew, given the opportunity, will jump at the chance to be part of an away mission. That is because the Enterprise crew is composed, for approximately ninety-five percent, of men and women of action and inquisitiveness, full of courage and scientific curiosity, eager to discover new and different worlds, civilizations, and phenomena.

McCoy does not consider himself to be one of them. He got stuck on the Enterprise due to a mix of unfortunate circumstances: a best friend who is unbelievably accident-prone and needs as much looking after as a toddler, a financially and emotionally draining divorce, the desire to put as many parsecs as possible between himself and his ex-wife, and the general feeling that by enlisting in Starfleet he’d not be leaving behind all that much. As the five-year mission has progressed, he has come to terms with the fact that a spaceship is, while infinitely more dangerous, as good a place as any to practice medicine, and even to do some biomedical research on the side. He has gotten used to being in space, sure. But that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Which is why the frequency with which he is recruited for landing parties absolutely baffles and annoys him. There are other six medical doctors on board, not to mention several EMTs and nurses, for fuck’s sake. Jim’s reasoning, which is, “I like you better,” only makes McCoy want to club him in the head.

And he will. Probably. Hopefully. If he, and Spock, and of course Ensign Kassowitz, currently unconscious right next to McCoy, manage to get the hell out this shitfest. It’ll be the first thing he does back on the Enterprise, even if it has to be over Uhura’s dead body (which is a pity, because she’s much smarter than that harebrained husband of hers), and he’ll delight in every second of it.

They’ve been separated from the rest of the party and stuck in this cell for what Spock tells him is three point seven hours, yet feels like thirty-seven. He could have busied himself plenty by tending to Kassowitz, but the locals took away his med kit together with their phasers and tricorders, and there isn’t much he can do except for constant monitoring and a bit of fretting. She obviously has a brain hemorrhage, and needs treatment one hour ago. He knows it, and Spock knows it, which is probably why the Vulcan has yet to snap at McCoy, even though the doctor has asked him how long they’ve been in this place at least thirty times.

Fuck.

Spock has spent the entirety of their captivity examining every single corner of the cell for points of weaknesses, running his fingertips meticulously on each surface, and finally resorting to powerfully kicking the forcefield locking them in to no avail, to later give up and simply sit down on the floor, cross-legged, eyes closed.

His uniform is impressively intact, considering that he took on about seven of the natives and knocked down five. The only sign that the fight even occurred is in his hair, more mussed that usual, but not more than McCoy has even seen it.

He is sitting exactly opposite to McCoy. He could not be further from him and still remain inside this cell, short of climbing the walls and hanging from the ceiling, which is about twenty feet high.

_It is difficult, to think clearly. When you are close._

“So, no luck, I assume?”

Spock opens his eyes suddenly, as if surprised by McCoy’s presence in the cell.

“Negative.”

McCoy nods, then sighs. “Fantastic.”

“I believe, however, that I can overpower the guards if they come to fetch us or bring us food or water. Given their technology, it should be impossible for them to transport anything within the cell, and they will be required to lower the forcefield.”

McCoy looks at him for a few seconds, before saying, “So that’s your plan? Waiting for them?”

“Correct.”

“Remind me why you’re considered a genius?”

Spock's eyes narrow. “As ever, Doctor, I am amenable to alternative solutions, should you desire to propose any.”

McCoy lets his head fall back until it’s touching the wall. He’s sitting with his elbows propped on his knees. “Yeah, I was afraid you’d say that. So when do you think they’ll show up?”

“Either seven or thirty-seven minutes from now.”

McCoy straightens up to look at him. “That’s eerily specific.”

“I might be mistaken, of course.”

McCoy raises his eyebrows. “Why, Commander, you should have told me you hit your head, too.”

Spock just meets his gaze squarely, clearly deciding to ignore the doctor’s comment. McCoy can’t help a smirk.

“Every code the natives have used to communicate with us, as well as the architectonic structure of all buildings, is based on patterns and combinations of prime numbers. It stands to reason that so does the way they measure time.”

That sounds… smart. If slightly far-fetched, but what does he know, he’s a doctor, not a… whatever Spock is. McCoy doesn’t have the faintest clue how Spock was able to pick all of this up while they were being manhandled and kidnapped. He’d love to be able to contribute with a clever sounding remark, like, ‘yeah, I did notice that while they were dragging us into this lovely dungeon,’ or, ‘are you sure it’s prime numbers and not prime powers?’

Pity that the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a mumbled, “Always hated damned prime numbers.”

Spock looks up from inspecting the hem of his fatigue pants and cocks his head with a curious expression.

McCoy waves a hand, dismissively. “It’s nothing. A human thing, I’m sure.”

Spock seems quite interested, though. He doesn’t say anything, so it’s hard to guess why McCoy feels as if he’s insisting for an explanation. Maybe the fact that for once he’s actually looking at McCoy without his gaze faltering, and seems to have briefly forgotten that his goal in life is to be too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

“It’s just,” he starts, his tone self-deprecating, “when I was a kid, in school, I always figured prime numbers must be pretty lonely. They never meet any other integer, except for number one, of course, but one’s hanging out with every single other number, too, so that’s sort of a bad deal.” He lifts his hands from his knees until his palms are facing the ceiling, and shrugs. “I know I'm talking about numbers. What can I say? I was an overly fanciful kid.”

Spock stares at him for about three seconds, probably cataloguing in his head all the ways what McCoy just said is so illogical that it’s akin to reviving Surak to murder him all over again. Then he opens his mouth. Hesitates. Closes it.

When he opens it again, he actually speaks, “I confess to a similar experience.”

“You were an overly fanciful kid?” McCoy asks dubiously.

“I had a preference for amicable numbers.”

“Amicable numbers?” Doesn’t ring a bell. “Which ones are those?”

“For couples of amicable numbers, the sum of proper divisors for one number is equal to the other, making them uniquely related.” Spock pauses. “Although the mathematical concept in itself is of limited scientific relevance, I recall finding the notion… agreeable.”

McCoy looks at Spock bemused, wondering if he really did hit his head. Maybe on his logic center, which must in some obscure part of the brain that is as big as a watermelon in Vulcans and that the VSA will never tell Starfleet about. Or maybe there was a body swap with one of the natives when they were attacked. Or, likely, McCoy’s the one who hit his head, and he’s imagining things. Yes, must be the last one, because even though they’re being held in a cell that smells like rotten eggs with an unconscious crewmember and very poor prospects to get out alive, he feels a grin widen on his face.

“That’s the most illogical thing I’ve heard, Commander.”

Spock doesn’t smile back, of course, but the corner of his mouth lifts. Imperceptibly. It’s not precisely new. It’s something McCoy has seen before, when Spock’s chatting with Nyota or bantering with Jim, or even talking about equations and weapon trajectories with Chekov, except… never quite from this angle. Never quite directed at him.

“I could name many more illogical things that you have done, Doctor. May I remind you that together with the Captain and Lieutenant Commander Scott you once decided to convert an area of engineering into a distillery, causing several explosions?”

McCoy frowns. “Hey. We made wine out of it. It wasn’t half bad.”

“I tasted it, and I have to say that I disagree.”

“Actually Spock, you don’t have to _say_ it. You could just think—”

Spock goes suddenly motionless and holds up his hand. McCoy immediately falls silent. A few seconds later, McCoy hears the sound of approaching footsteps. Seven minutes it is, then. He glances at Spock. Outwardly, the Vulcan is still sitting casually, but McCoy recognizes the tension in his body. The tautness in his muscles.

When they come for them, Spock is, of course, able to overpower the guards almost single-handedly. He’s the one who carries Kassowitz to a safer place, and who actually figures out a pretty nifty way to communicate their location to the Enterprise, even though their comms were taken away several hours ago.

McCoy has seen Spock do stuff like this for the past five years, and yet, for what feels like the first time, he can’t help but being quietly impressed.

That night, after Kassowits is stabilized, and McCoy has yelled at Jim for making him go on these shitty off-world missions all the time, he goes back to his quarters to shower off the grime and the blood, and to conk out for at least eight hours.

Before falling asleep, he grabs a PADD and runs a search on amicable numbers.

 

~

 

After the cell, they form a truce or sorts.

It mainly translates into McCoy trying not to sigh in exasperation whenever Spock opens his mouth to say stuff like _illogical_ or _fascinating_ , and Spock not blushing as if McCoy just caught him with his hands in the cookie jar when they are in each other's presence. A couple of times Spock even initiates a conversation with him of his own free will, without being spoken to first or having to communicate something crucial or ship-related. McCoy is quietly stunned, both times.

It's probably the reason why sitting next to him at Sulu’s anniversary party doesn't seem like that big of a deal.

Everyone is wasted. Everyone. Even Calder’s daughter, who’s seventeen if he recalls correctly and should probably not even be in here. McCoy would really, really love to join them, except that the following morning he’s due to perform a surgery procedure delicate enough that trusting the hangover hypo to actually do his job seems like cutting it a little too close. So he limits himself to the beer in his hand, and just looks at the infants going crazy around him with disapproval.

He scans the dimly lit rec room twice before noticing Spock. He's sitting on one of the curved couches, chatting with a comm ensign whose name McCoy has either forgotten or never known. The former, probably, since he does remember that she had a wacky mole removed during the first year of the mission, and then sprained an ankle about six months ago. The left one. Eversion, grade two. McCoy notices, not for the first time and in an oddly detached way, that she is very pretty. Ridiculously so.

Spock is holding a drink, bourbon judging from the color, and sipping from it at a rate that is not unreasonably fast, but that would get a human male of his height and weight completely smashed within about thirty minutes. When his glass his empty, and the ensign of the mystery name insists on going to refill it even though Spock’s obviously trying to decline, McCoy heads over to what has got be the only other clearheaded person on the Enterprise not currently on duty.

The music is so loud that Spock doesn’t notice him until he takes a seat on the couch, a couple of feet from him. Spock being Spock, he doesn’t say hi or anything, though he does look at McCoy, acknowledging his existence. It’s a big step forward from a few months back, and McCoy'll take what he can get.

He leans back and gets comfortable. “How much do you hate this, on a scale from one to feelings?”

Spock goes back to surveying the room. “Do you often use this unit of measurement in your medical practice, Doctor?”

“Only with Vulcans. Works perfectly.”

“I was under the impression that I am you only Vulcan patient.”

McCoy smirks. “Oh, you are.”

Spock does his best impression of an eye-roll. “The sensory input is… unpleasant.”

McCoy nods. He bets it is. He hates it, too, and he doesn’t even have to deal with two hundred minds jamming his telepathic frequencies. “Twenty minutes,” he tells Spock, who looks at him inquisitively. “Until it’s socially acceptable to leave by human standards,” he elaborates.

“Ah. Thank you. I meant to ask Nyota, but…” The both turn to look at Nyota, who’s presently busy clambering up Jim. Dancing, she’d probably call it. Whatever that is, Jim does not appear to mind too much. Or at all.

“It’s never fun to be the non-plastered guy as a party. Though it does get better the following day, when you’re the only one who can tell them how they got that reverse Hitler mustache.” God knows he’s been there often enough with Jim.

Spock studies him for a while McCoy takes a sip from his beer. “You seem uncharacteristically sober.”

“Now, what do you mean, uncharacteristically?” He’s hoping to sound disgruntled, but he’s not putting much effort in it.

“Merely that you usually take better advantage when alcoholic supplies are made available.”

McCoy shrugs. “What can I say? I contain multitudes.” Spock just keeps staring at him with his implacable expression, so he adds, “I have a surgery early tomorrow morning.”

Spock nods once, with comprehension, and then turns to his left.

The ridiculously pretty, mysterious Ensign has finally returned. She smiles, too widely, and sits next to the Commander. Much closer than she was before departing in search for the drink, McCoy notices, even though the couch is long enough that this level of proximity is not required.

Spock is Vulcan. Half-Vulcan, okay, though McCoy doesn’t remind him unless he’s purposefully trying to rile him up. Still, that Vulcans hate being within touching distance of people if they can avoid it is not exactly the best kept secret of their specie. McCoy wonders if this girl has even read the Starfleet memos, or if he should remind her right now. He also wonders why the Vulcan in question doesn’t seem to be bothered. At all. McCoy stares at the two of them and notices, for the first time, that Spock and Ensign Whatsherface have very similar coloring.

They are both very good-looking, actually. Ridiculously so.

She hands Spock a glass that is almost full to the brim.

“Thank you, Ensign.” It’s the equivalent of what from anyone else would be a resigned sigh, though the girl doesn’t seem to notice and just beams at Spock. McCoy wonders when exactly he got good at reading Spock’s facial expressions, since it’s definitely not something he had a knack for when the mission started.

The music has gotten so loud than McCoy has to lean forward to make sure that the girl can hear him. “Nice effort, Ensign, but it’s all in vain. You'd need about your weight worth in alcohol to get him to find this whole thing bearable.” He tries not to frown and to couch it as a joke, and the Ensign laughs and darts a coy glance at Spock.

She leans forward to answer McCoy. “What if I used chocolate? Would that work?”

Seriously. She is basically in Spock’s lap. How much has she had? Doesn’t she have any notion of personal space in other cultures? And why is Spock not saying anything? It’s not as if McCoy hasn’t seen him been obnoxiously assertive a billion times before. A billion and one, if memory serves.

“No.” He shakes his head, hoping he’s not scowling. Jim keeps telling him not to scare the ensigns too much. “Common misconception, though.”

Spock doesn’t say anything and just takes a sip of his drink, seemingly uninterested in a conversation that is entirely about himself. The girl, however, nods sadly and raises her hand until it’s on Spock’s shoulder, close enough to the curve of his neck that the tips of her index and middle fingers are visibly touching skin. “That sounds awful, Commander,” she tells Spock, staring into his eyes and batting her eyelashes.

McCoy almost chokes on his beer.

Spock just looks back at her, head cocked.

 _Seriously_.

For a moment, McCoy considers forcibly removing her hand from Spock’s uniform and writing her up for a xeno-sensitivity refresher. He goes as far as lifting his non-beer holding arm, when someone very loud, very heavy, and screaming something that sounds suspiciously like “Booooones,” hurls himself at him. McCoy feels the air knocked out of him.

“Jim,” he gasps, “I swear to god that I’m removing from your diet card anything that’s not a shade of green first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Fine, fine.” Jim drunkenly shifts so that he’s sitting next to McCoy and not on him anymore. “Hey, do you even realize that you’re the only person who’s wearing an uniform. How lame is that?” Mid-sentence, he catches sight of Spock, who’s also wearing his uniform. “As lame as this other guy, obviously.”

Spock and McCoy exchange a glance. Maybe space radioactivity has made McCoy a telepath, because he’d bet credits that he knows what Spock’s thinking, which is that dealing with this guy is way above his pay grade. McCoy concurs.

“Captain, may I point out that you are wearing your uniform, too.” Jim is, except that he’s tied his yellow jersey turban-style over his ears and one of his boots is missing a shoelace.

“But I improved it!” he declares proudly. “Plus, yellow’s such a better color than blue. You guys are lame!”

McCoy turns to Spock. “Please, tell me he’s scheduled for Alpha tomorrow.”

“He is.”

“Great. Any way we can make sure he doesn’t have access to coffee?”

“I shall attempt to.”

“Nice.”

Uhura, McCoy notices with the corner of his eye as he and Spock talk, has been sitting on the other end of the couch, next to the culturally insensitive Ensign, chatting like they know each other pretty well. Maybe they bonded over their similar taste in men. McCoy studies her for a moment, wondering if she’s as wasted as Jim. When she notices McCoy looking at her, leans forward to speak to him. “Leonard! Spock! Have I told you how much I love you and how happy I am that you were at my wedding?”

She is wasted, all right. Spock doesn’t seem to mind, and looks at her with that tender, charmed, expression that one would never expect from him and that he reserves only for Nyota, and replies, “Seven times. Twice while intoxicated.”

McCoy thinks it through a bit, and then nods. “Sounds about right.”

Nyota looks at both of them with a solemn expression on his face, hands over her heart. “Good. Good, really, because it I want you to know that it means so much to me that you are my friends, and I hope that—hey I love this song! Let’s go dancing!” She grabs both the ensign and Jim’s by the wrist and runs towards the center of the room. The ensign turns briefly to throw Spock a wistful look, and then lets Nyota drag her onto the dance floor.

“If this is the best crew in Starfleet,” McCoy says, shaking his head and catching sight of Chekov doing shots over Keenser’s head, “the Federation is fucked.”

When Spock doesn’t say anything, McCoy shifts to look at him. He’s staring straight ahead, clutching his glass so tightly that his knuckles are in stark evidence. He looks tense. “Hey, you okay? That was a lot… sensory input.”

Spock doesn’t reply for a second. When he does, he turns in McCoy’s direction, but doesn’t look him in the eyes. “Doctor, could you…?”

Could he…?

Oh.

_Right._

At a certain point in the past two minutes, he ended up sitting a little closer to Spock. Courtesy of Jim, of course. His thigh is, undeniably, touching the Vulcan’s, though only in one spot, and only through clothes.

McCoy moves, and Spock somewhat relaxes.

Okay.

“So, you still…” McCoy stares at his beer, hoping it will tell him how to continue the sentence. It doesn’t of course. Twenty more beers might help, though.

He lifts his eyes to Spock, who’s actually looking at him for once. At least, with the light at thirty or so percent McCoy can’t see that flush he sometimes has on his cheekbones. He hopes the opposite is true, too.

“Doctor?” Spock’s voice is soft, and yet McCoy can hear him.

“Do you still…” he repeats, uselessly, and then just gives up on the sentence altogether. “I mean, _she_ was basically in your lap.” He blurts out the latter part more unkindly than he’d have liked, then sighs and lets his gaze run around the room, frustrated.

_It is difficult, to think clearly. When you are close._

This is stupid. It’s not as if it isn’t Spock’s prerogative to decide to accept only selected people in his personal space. Or as if he owes McCoy an explanation for it. It’s just…

McCoy really wants to know what Spock meant, back at the wedding. Has for some time, now.

Spock takes what feels like an hour to answer McCoy’s non-question. “She was.”

McCoy feels his heart rate speed up a bit. In his head, he’s imagined this conversation more times than he’s proud to say. “So…”

Spock is speaking to his knees. “It is different. I am not…” He closes his eyes for a moment. Opens them again. “She is not… distracting. To me.”

McCoy feels his heart skip a beat. His hand tightens on his beer. “I see.”

Spock lifts his eyes. “I must apologize. I did not mean for you to… I realize that this puts you in an uncomfortable position, and—”

“It doesn’t. I…” McCoy forces himself to finish his beer. “Thank you, Spock. For explaining.”

Spock looks at him searchingly for an instant, and then nods. “Very well.” He sets his still full glass on the table and stands. “I believe twenty minutes have passed. Good night.”

McCoy doesn’t look at Spock while he walks out.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The first time McCoy contemplates it, it’s the day after the party, and he chides himself for hours.

After that, he thinks about it daily.

Or more than that.

He replays the conversation he had with Spock, all twenty-five words of it, and he pictures what it would be like if he were to take him up on an offer he never even made.

He imagines endless hours spent discussing the connotations of the Saxon genitive, or the best electron microscope to carry out quantum mechanics experiments, or, for fuck’s sakes, the delights of coin collecting, probably. He imagines Spock looking at him disapprovingly when he eats meat. He imagines being told that the word ‘several’ has variable definitions, ad nauseam, and cutthroat arguments over the fact that it makes no sense whatsoever to send a rescue party of ten to save one single person because the good of the many always comes first. 

Then, he imagines sex.

He hasn’t really thought about sex in anything but very abstract, distantly wishful terms for years. At least since he ended up on this ship and got stuck taking care of this bunch of infants. He doesn’t even _remember considering_ sex with another man in more years than that, and why is that anyway? And now…

Now Spock is everywhere he turns to, walking in that gliding was he has from one side of the bridge to the other, throat working as he swallows a sip of his tea, long fingers flying over his console or pointing at numbers on a PADD as he explains Scotty exactly why they can’t add _that_ to the warp room.

Eyes bypassing McCoy. Mostly.

Though, sometimes, he does catch Spock watching him.

And then he thinks about sex even more. Awkward, boring, delicious, filthy sex.

He thinks about it. All. The. Time.

He tells himself he must be going crazy.

 

~

 

“Drink this.”

Spock looks suspiciously at the tumbler McCoy’s offering and makes no move to take it.

“These electrolytes need to get into you. You can drink them, or I can forcibly inject you. Your choice.” When Spock seems undecided, he takes a hypo out of his pocket and waves it in front of his eyes. “I definitely have a preference, so…”

Spock extends his arm and grabs the tumbler, drinking the content quickly, and then sets it on the small table next to the biobed. “Good Vulcan. It wasn’t that hard, was it?”

Spock shoots him a glare. “No harder than obtaining a medical license, clearly.”

McCoy watches him with faux sympathy. “Oh, poor baby. Are you grumpy because your medicine tasted bad?”

Spock ignores him. “May I return to my post, Doctor?”

McCoy gives him a last scan with his tricorder. Honestly, the average human would still be unconscious after the way he hit his head, but Spock here is clamoring to go back to his petri dishes. Unnatural hobgoblins and their voodoo healing.

“Yeah, I guess you’re fine. Though you’ve still got you stubborn ass and your stupidity, I can’t cure those.”

“Together with many other ailments, I belie—”

Spock is in the process of standing from the biobed, and McCoy is considering sedating him just for fun, when the ship, currently at warp, suddenly jerks to a stop. McCoy is able to keep upright by extending one arm and holding onto the wall, but Spock ends up flattened against him.

They’re basically hugging, what with McCoy’s hands coming up to Spock’s elbows to help him find his balance, and the fact that Spock’s face is basically nestled in the crook of his neck.

Sulu really needs to learn to parallel park.

They stay like that for about two, three, four seconds. More than it’s strictly necessary, for sure, and when Spock steps back his eyes are searching.

McCoy looks away. Seriously, he’s signing Sulu up for driving classes.

“Boy, you're heavy for having two percent body fat,” he says, just to break the silence.

“The density of my skeleton is—”

“Yeah, yeah, Vulcan super bones. Cut the lesson, I know all about that. Strangely enough, the VSA saw fit to pass along the information,” he adds acerbically.

Even Spock doesn’t have it in him to defend the VSA. “I should go to the bridge to confirm the reason of the anomaly.” Spock is almost out of the room before even finishing the sentence, but he turns at the last moment. “Thank you, Doctor.”

McCoy waits for him for be gone, and then wipes at his face.

What the fuck is going on?

 

~

 

The day he gives in, he has a terrible fight with Spock, perhaps the most contentious since the Commander marooned Jim all those years ago.

It happens in his office, though McCoy doesn’t delude himself into thinking that their voices cannot be overheard till up on Deck 5.

To be fair, he’s not mad at Spock. He’s mad at Starfleet, and at their decision to redirect them from Algeron III, which is in desperate need of medical supplies, to Starbase Whatever to pick up Ambassador Whatever and drop him off to planet Whatever.

Yes, someone else will take care of Algeron III.

No, it’s not ideal and the locals will have to wait longer for help.

No, there is nothing they can do to avoid this, short of mutinying and going rogue, and he’s not putting that idea in Jim’s head.

Nevertheless.

“You pointy computer, you couldn’t care less that hundreds of people are going to die as long as Starfleet can show off and send us to play chauffeur for a random guy who just happens to be sitting on loads of dilithium,” he yells at Spock, finger almost stabbing at his chest.

“Yet again, you are behaving irrationally and displaying no understanding of the intricacies of diplomacy, nor any grasping of the subtleties of the situation and of the position of the Enterprise,” Spock hisses at him.

They end up standing closer than… well, not than they've ever been, but closer than appropriate. Closer than it’s wise, for sure. They stare each other down belligerently, until McCoy feels his chest heave and his nostrils flare, not to mention his eyes, that have somehow slipped down to Spock’s lips, and… the shift of tension in the room is palpable.

Spock’s throat works silently and he looks to the side, the sound of him breathing once, deeply, from his nose, distinct in the silence of McCoy’s office. Then, he turns and leaves without saying a word, leaving McCoy alone to deal with whatever it is that’s coiling low in his abdomen.

McCoy has a lot of shortcomings, but blatant self-deception is not one of them. A pinch of denial, maybe, but they’re way past that.

When the doors of Spock’s quarters whoosh open, McCoy doesn’t waste any time. “I was totally out of line,” he mumbles resentfully.

Spock is wearing his uniform minus his jersey. His lips are thin. Very thin. “Indeed.”

“In my defense, you were going out of your way to be an asshole.”

Spock’s expression doesn’t move a millimeter. “I accept your apology, Doctor.”

McCoy tries not to look too pinched. He knows he’s failing. “Anyway. Can I come it?”

Spock’s eyes widen imperceptibly, and for a second McCoy is sure he’s going to say no, but then he moves back to allow him room to enter. “Do you intend to insult me further in my private quarters?”

McCoy steps in. The room is significantly hotter than even the corridor just outside, but with a dry, pleasant atmosphere that does not remind him of the suffocating climate of Georgia. Spock shares a bathroom with the Captain, and his cabin is a mirror-like version of Jim’s, minus the clutter and the half-empty coffee mugs. There are holos hanging, of Spock’s mother, McCoy guesses, of Spock and Uhura together, and of a landscape that could probably be Vulcan. The rest is PADDs and clean surfaces. “I’ll try to restrain myself.”

As soon the sensors deactivate and the doors close behind McCoy, Spock takes two steps back and crosses his arms over his chest. “Unheard of, I believe. How may I help you, Doctor?”

McCoy hesitates. It feels weird, to stand in the entryway like this, but Spock clearly has no intention of asking him to sit down, and McCoy’s not going to blame him, much as it costs him not blame something on Spock. Not after the scene McCoy made six hours ago.

“It’s not about Algeron III,” he begins. “It’s about…”

McCoy doesn’t finish the sentence, and all of this is absurd. Spock is a computer, and McCoy is a doctor, and they really should be able to talk candidly about things like attraction, or sex. And yet. It’s precisely because of McCoy’s hesitation that Spock immediately knows what this visit is about, and he stiffens in a way that McCoy wouldn’t have noticed even three months ago. Before the wedding.

It really is ironic, how over the course of the two stilted, stunted, awkward conversations they’ve had about… _this_ , they seem to have developed they own language, made of broken sentences, ellipses, and fleeting looks. And a few choice words, such as _close_ , and _distracting_ , with several meanings living inside them, that McCoy himself struggles at decoding.

McCoy looks at the floor before continuing, and crosses his arms over his chest. There, now they are exactly mirroring each other’s position, and it’s probably the most off-putting and hostile they could have adopted. He sighs.

“I have been… distracted, too.” He catches sight of a mat in a corner. For meditation, he guesses. McCoy is vaguely surprised Spock doesn’t just do it on the bare floor, stoically. “Maybe we can… help each other out.”

He doesn’t want to look up. He does not. But the silence stretches for so long that he doesn’t have a choice, and when he lifts his eyes he immediately wonders if he broke Spock. Because sure, Spock’s always still, but never quite _this still_.

“Or not. It was just,” he waves a hand vaguely, “an idea.” Oh, the choppy sentences between them. McCoy’s cheeks feel hot. Have for a while.

“The Captain mentioned that you were… dating a crewmember. Someone in my department.” Spock’s tone is carefully modulated, even, as he closes around the word ‘dating’, and yet the question in what he's saying is obvious.

“I was not, um, it was just… a couple of times. It would not be…” What? McCoy swallows. “Cause for concern.”

“I see.” Spock doesn’t nod.

“It wouldn’t be…” McCoy feels compelled to add. “Whatever we do, it wouldn’t be dating. It would be just…”

 _You know_.

Spock knows. Obviously. He doesn’t demand clarification, doesn’t cock his head in askance, just looks at McCoy, as if assessing him, for an uncomfortable about of time, and then says, “Very well,” and takes a step, then two, until he’s standing in front of him.

As far as first kisses go, it’s pretty fucking awkward.

First, McCoy doesn’t think he’s ever kisses someone who’s his own height, and if he has it’s been about fifteen years ago and he has no memory the whole experience. Nor has Spock, he doesn’t think. Those little things that should be automatic, like inclining heads in opposite directions, and knowing where to put one’s hands, and even the simple act of leaning into each other, they all feel as intricate as solving indefinite integrals.

McCoy instantly regrets initiating this, with his whole horny self, and he wonders with unease if he can even go through with it.

Except, by total chance, one of them must have done something right, because suddenly their mouths are about half an inch apart, and Spock’s left hand is very loosely grasping McCoy’s right elbow, while their _other_ hands are still dangling uselessly, yes, but sort of brushing against each other.

At least they got to this point, and it’s not… unpleasant. One of them is going to have to bridge the gap between their mouths, at a certain point, but for now… Spock’s breath is comfortably warm, and he smells very good, like soap, but also faintly masculine. With a kick. No, not unpleasant at all, McCoy considers, and without thinking it through any further, he just leans forward and well, will you look at that, now they’re actually kissing.

It’s a peck, really. McCoy has done some pretty dirty stuff in his time, and this is nothing. McCoy’s lips open insignificantly over Spock’s, which open insignificantly over McCoy’s, and there you have it. It’s… not terrible. McCoy can live through this, he tells himself, leaning a little further for another very chaste kiss. They’re breathing the same air, and their bodies are now nearly flush, and if Spock inclines his head a little to the right then—yes, this is not a disaster.

Spock tastes… _good_ , his brain supplies. Yes, good, not like copper precisely, but not like a human would, and McCoy wouldn’t mind tasting a little more, and apparently neither would Spock, because they both open their mouths at the exact same time, and…

As far as first kisses go, this is a pretty fucking good kiss. McCoy’s not quite sure when exactly he put his hands around the base of Spock’s head, or when he started aggressively maneuvering Spock backwards to cage him against the wall, or which one of them is moaning like that, but it’s definitely happening and. Holy. Shit. He’s holding Spock’s nape and licking inside his mouth, and this is the most turned on he’s been in a while, and it feels _unbelievable_.

How, and why McCoy has denied this to himself for _months_ , he truly cannot fathom.

Especially because the thing that started all of this to begin with, Spock’s erection, is now pushing against his own rock-hard cock, and the main issue is rapidly shifting from _can I go through with this?_ to _how long can I even make this last?_

 _Not very_ , he answers himself when Spock’s hands close around his waist, first above his uniform and then underneath, initially barely grazing the skin and then, gradually, kneading flesh. Impossibly, the kiss deepens.

McCoy wants more, he thinks. More of everything. He pulls his mouth away, and Spock doesn’t like that very much judging from his whimper, but McCoy immediately moves to the base of his neck, sucking and licking wetly up the column of his throat. Meanwhile, god knows when, their hips have started lazily rolling against each other and it is some nice friction he’s getting. Very nice. So nice that he feels a familiar tingling at the base of his spine, and— _no!_

He steps back a couple of inches back, before the whole thing becomes painfully humiliating. Only to find that Spock is looking at him with very unfocused, very dilated pupils, which is possibly making the whole thing even more urgent.

“I want to—” he gasps out, reaching for the fly of Spock’s pants. “Let me—” he continues.

Spock lets him, teeth biting his lower lip, until his unnaturally hot cock is in McCoy’s hand, and then _fuck_ , they are both moaning between ridiculously deep kisses, McCoy pumping Spock up and down as he rhythmically rubs his own cock over the Vulcan’s hip.

“This is…I’ve thought about this …” he mutters wetly in Spock’s ear, trying his best to dam the sharp pleasure pooling low in his belly, stopping Spock’s hand as it tugs at the fastening of his pants. “Too close.”

Turns out, so is Spock. On a downward stroke, the Vulcan’s head slides back and hits the bulkhead, eyes slammed shut, and his whole body goes rigid, tightly wound, and the next thing McCoy is aware of is that _Spock’s come_ is filling his hand. What happens afterwards is unclear, but McCoy does know that he must have very nearly passed out from the pleasure, because he’s oblivious to the world around him for a few seconds, and when he comes to the only things keeping him upright are his teeth biting on Spock’s neck and the Vulcan’s hands pressing into on the small of his back.

“Oh, shit.”

Oh, shit, Spock just made him come in his pants.

Oh, shit, it was mind-blowing.

Oh, shit, Spock’s jizz is all over his right hand.

McCoy orders his head to stop swaying and takes a step back, trying to regain control of his pulse. And his breathing, too, if at all possible. He feels like he just did ten space jumps in a row. Spock doesn’t seem to be in any better shape, but at least he has the wall, and both of his hands to hold himself upright.

McCoy wipes his palm on his jersey. The whole uniform’s headed for the sonics, anyway. “Are you okay?”

Spock nods, eyes glassy. “You?”

McCoy thinks about it for a seconds, and then lets out a silent laugh. “I’m pretty fucking great, actually.”

The left corner of Spock’s mouth lifts in response. It makes McCoy grin even wider as he starts heading for the entrance.

They were both pretty clear about what this was, in they own unclear way. And McCoy doesn’t think he can get it up ever again, judging from how he’s feeling right now. “Have a good night, Spock.”

The doors have already opened when Spock speaks. “Doctor?”

McCoy turns.

“I would be amenable to… repeating the experience. Should you wish it.”

McCoy dips his head in acknowledgment, and leaves.

 

~

 

Nothing changes, after.

McCoy still goes to the bridge with the sole purpose of seeing Jim, and he and Spock definitely don't start taking meals together like bosom friends or, god forbid, playing chess. They still snark at each other in the corridors, in Jim’s ready room, in the mess hall, during budget meetings.

(“Sure, sickbay doesn't need new laser scalpels. For surgery we'll just cut patients open using broken microscope slides discarded by the science labs.”

“I was under the impression that is what you have been doing all along, given your patients’ recovery rates.”

“The arboretum really needs a new irrigation system,” Sulu pipes up shyly.)

The one difference is that a few days later, when he shows up to Spock’s cabin after his shift, Spock lets him in without saying a word.

 

~

 

The thing with sex is, it can easily transition from being a luxury to full necessity status in the blink of an eye.

Especially if it’s good sex.

And with Spock, it’s… yeah.

Initially, it’s little more than hasty handjobs when they both happen to be off duty at the same time, and McCoy’s not too exhausted to make the trek to Spock’s cabin. There is never any misunderstanding: Spock lets him in with a steady look, no feigned surprise or useless _how may I help you_ s, and about five seconds later their hands are in each other’s pants. Tongues in each other’s mouths. They don’t undress. They don’t make it much further than the wall next to the door. They don’t talk before, or after, or during, if one doesn’t count the groans, and the pleas, and the encouragements.

McCoy still knows jack shit about Spock’s opinion on the upcoming Andorian elections, whether he has siblings, what he was doing before McCoy came in or what he plans to do afterwards.

He doubts Spock learns a thing about him, either, except how he likes his cock to be stroked and the way his breath hitches right before he comes.

It lasts for weeks, and his sex-starved brain soaks it all up and basks in it.

It feels good. It’s perfect.

Until that same greedy, insatiable brain starts craving more. More of the sex, rather than more of Spock, even though the two things have melded, blended together until teasing them apart is an impossible feat.

He notices one day, while they’re kissing, and his hands seem to continue drifting upwards, wanting to touch, to roam, to free the warm, smooth expanse of Spock's skin for his eyes.

“Can you take off your uniform?” he asks before he can think any better of it, in between licks at the base of Spock’s throat, and it’s the most coherent thing either of them has said in these quarters since that first night. Spock, as ever pressed against the wall, lifts his chin and looks taken aback for a moment, but McCoy’s hand is currently playing with his balls, and he’s not in the position to say no, not really. Spock takes his jersey and undershirt off in one single smooth move, grabbing it from the back of his neck and yanking it over his head, and…

It’s not news. He’s known all along that Spock is good looking, and there is no objective reason to just stare at him, mouth agape. So he just does the same with his own shirt, and if they spend ten extra minutes running their hands and mouths over each other’s muscles like they’re learning anatomy all over again, and if later they come that much harder because of it, who’s McCoy to complain anyway.

But it’s a little like pulling at a thread, and McCoy watches their routine come undone as his mind starts wandering away, thinking of _stuff_ while he writes reports, while he’s in meetings, while he works out.

Stuff like, _what if we did it in bed_.

Or, _what if we were naked_.

Or, _could I get Spock to come in my mouth_.

And that’s how it starts to become something else.

 

~

 

“I swear these dress uniforms are made of cardboard.”

“They are, in fact, made of synthetic cotton. One hundred percent.”

“Whatever. I hate it.”

“May I remind you that I have an eidetic memory, Doctor?”

“What does that even have to with the shitty uniforms?”

“You made the same statement four times in the last three minutes.”

“Yeah, and I wasn’t talking to you any of those time. Maybe you ears are so pointed that they can’t stay out of my business.”

“As your tone was not calibrated to reach anyone else, I will assume that you were talking to yourself, then. Should a competent physician be alerted of this development?”

McCoy turns and pins Spock with a withering look.

The one thing worse than having to attend diplomatic dinners is the fact that First Officer and CMO are always sat next to each other. Always. Tonight included. It has been a long night of savage barbs, followed by a shuttle ride back full of poorly disguised insults.

Business as usual.

“By all means, do. Maybe he or she can help me spend hours trying to come up with compounds that work on your hybrid physiology. Hey. You should come to my quarters.” He says the last part without pausing or looking at Spock first, off handedly, as if the idea seeing Spock out of this death trap of an uniform weren’t something that has been rolling around his head since he first saw Spock inside this death trap of a uniform. Because it feels tight and starchy, but still, it can look very... not bad.

On the right person.

Spock hesitates briefly, a small falter in his step, a barely noticeable shift in the center of mass on his body, and McCoy is sure he’s about to say no. It's a change in their M.O., and Spock doesn't like changes. McCoy doesn’t, either, but he like getting off and likes doing it with Spock. Asking seems worth it. In the end, Spock just drops his chin and follows McCoy to his cabin.

The one good thing of the dress uniform is that by regulation Starfleet gives everyone two sets, and by this time in the mission they’ve all had the spare one irreparably damaged in one way or another. It’s also a pain to get clean, unlike fatigues, and given how messy their activities have been in the past, it’s only _logical_ if as soon as they step inside his quarters McCoy starts stripping, first the hat, then the jacket, then the black undershirt, until he’s bare chested. In the meantime, Spock is just looking around as if his cabin were the most fascinating thing and the worthy object of an observational report.

It isn't. Who cares about McCoy’s stupid quarters? Spock naked, on the other hand… McCoy walks up to him and starts undoing buttons, sliding zippers, and Spock must remember the reason why he’s here because he’s helping him, until they’re both down to the same, boring Starfleet-issue boxer shorts, Spock’s hair looking so mussed that McCoy can’t help but running a hand through it to make it even more tousled.

You don’t spend four years on a spaceship with someone without seeing them naked, especially not if you’re CMO, and not if that someone gets hurt as often as Spock does. But this…

He doesn’t need to compliment Spock. He doesn’t want to. It’s not like he’s wooing him, or anything like that. It would be undue, and inappropriate. So he surprises himself when he opens his mouth and says, “God, you…” To continue, he would have to work the words past his constricting throat, and there’s no point is that.

Another sentence unfinished, interrupted by the sound of someone swallowing loudly. McCoy, probably.

At least Spock doesn’t mind, since he’s busy staring and McCoy, mouth slightly open, hands flexing on his sides, and yes, he works out because Space is always out to kill them all, and he’s always been naturally bulky, but he does not warrant that look. Or the reverent way in which Spock’s fingers start tracing his shoulders, and pressing into his flesh, or the fact that he goes willingly, passively when McCoy backs him onto the couch, too busy sucking bruises into his skin.

McCoy doesn’t have a plan for this, except getting as much out of Spock’s body as he can, and then once his head is clear again he really needs to finish up that guideline report for Starfleet Medical that he got three reminders for—

In a move that only manages to be smooth because Spock is three times stronger than a human, he finds himself maneuvered so that his back is half on the back, half on the armrest of the couch.

“What are you—”

Spock doesn’t lift his eyes and mouths his collarbone, then his nipple, and then starts inching down until…

“Fuck.” McCoy grunts as Spock rubs his face over the length of his cock, still covered by underwear. “Fuck, Spock, you don’t have to,” but he doesn’t stop him when he lowers McCoy’s boxer shorts, black eyes trained on his dick all the way.

McCoy didn’t have a plan, but this is not what he expected.

“Spock, wait—have you ever done this?”

Spock’s looks up to his face, skin greener than usual, and shakes his head.

“Jesus.” McCoy shuts his eyes. It’s not as if he can conceivably stop him. Not right now, with Spock kneeling in front of him. No one’s _that_ strong. “I’m going to hell for this.”

Spock’s attention returns to McCoy’s cock. “Negative,” he says absentmindedly, running his nose in the crease between thigh and abdomen, “atoms in your body will break down and undergo different biogeochemical cycles—”

“God, Spock, just don’t talk. If you want this to last longer than thirty second, just…” And what does it say of him that he finds Spock’s lectures orgasm worthy, eh?

It’s good that he asked, because he probably couldn’t have guessed just from Spock’s technique that he’s never done it before, and would have done something like what he really wants to do now, such as weaving his hand through Spock’s messy hair and holding his head down until his nostrils flare, or rocking up into his tight throat, or ordering him to lick his balls. In the end, he does half of these things anyway, and then all of them, and Spock goes absolutely crazy, in his own repressed, Vulcan way.

McCoy has never—

There is no—

It feels so—

What makes it past his lips is, “Please. Tell me I can come in your mouth.”

Spock doesn’t take a break from the masterpiece he’s weaving, could not given how McCoy’s hand is on his nape, but angles his head so that he’s looking straight into McCoy s eyes. He must know... he must see how desperate McCoy is. How close. Jesus Christ. He can't tell him not to. McCoy’ll do anything.

Still holding McCoy’s gaze, Spock’s head slides up until only his tongue is around the tip of his cock. It's the least amount of stimulation he has gotten in the last few minutes, but this is Spock, the same Spock who won’t touch food with hands, who asked him to please step back from him because his proximity was _distracting_. His mind snaps white, and he’s coming like he hasn’t in a million years, hips bucking uncontrollably.

Spock swallows it all, and then licks McCoy clean while he struggles to remember what his name is, and why he's in space.

“Thanks,” McCoy manages after a while, surprised by the hoarseness of his own voice.

Spock licks the region between his dick and his balls once, twice, making McCoy twitch, and then he rights himself up by propping his hands on McCoy's thighs. They are pleasantly warm.

“You are welcome.” He looks halfway between smug and just plain relaxed.

“Let me return the favor,” McCoy says quietly. “I’m a little, um, out of practice, but you sure made that seem easy.”

Spock stands up. “There is no need.”

“Of course there is. Come here.”

Spock shakes his head. “Doctor—”

McCoy joins him on his feet, ignoring the lightheadedness. “Can it, Spock. I want to—”

Lightning quick, Spock grabs McCoy hand and brings it to his crotch. The fabric of his underwear is noticeably wet.

“Oh. Well then…”

“Indeed.”

As soon as Spock lets his hand go, McCoy takes it back and enfolds it in his other one. “We should do that again. Since we both seemed to like it.”

“Yes,” Spock answers without looking at him, heading for the discarded heap of his uniform. It feels odd to just stand there, staring at Spock as he puts on his pants, so McCoy makes himself busy and retrieves the black undershirt, which, for some reason, is halfway under his bed.

“Here you go,” he says, handing Spock the garment. “Don't envy you for having to put that monster back on.”

“Are you suggesting that I return to my quarters without doing so?”

“Why not? I think the pretty ensign who was trying to get you drunk lives on this deck. She ain’t gonna complain.”

Spock takes a second to give him a contemptuous look, and then proceeds to put on the undershirts, only to stop in mid track. “I believe this is yours.”

McCoy frowns. “How can you even tell?”

“The smell.”

McCoy grabs it and brings it to his nose. “It smells like sonics and recycled ship air.”

Spock takes it back and meticulously folds it, stepping away to place it on the coffee table in front of the couch. “It smells like you.”

Something in the way Spock says it, voice soft, broad back to him, makes McCoy deeply uncomfortable. “If you say so,” he prattles to cover it. “At least it wasn't the science uniform. Jim would have a field day if one of us showed up with the wrong ranking stripes.”

Spock’s expression is pained as he finishes getting dressed. “I believe Nyota has the potential of being significantly worse.”

McCoy’s eyes widen. “Oh, yeah. We wouldn’t hear the end of it.”

“She might insist on making a ship-wide announcement. As she controls all communication channels.”

McCoy shudders. “We’d have to kill her.”

Spock does that half smile thing. “As you are a doctor, the burden would fall upon me.”

McCoy chuckles. “I’d leave the medicine vault unlocked. In case you wanted to steal something to make it quick and painless. She’s a great gal, after all.”

“I appreciate it, Doctor.” Spock is completely dressed, standing in front of the door with his hat in his hands. His hair is tousled, so tousled that any person who has ever had sex in their life would be able to guess what they’ve been up to. McCoy can’t help but run a hand through it, trying to tidy it up; and then, since his hand is already up there, why not pull Spock’s head a couple of inches towards his own? His lips close against the Vulcan's in a kiss that is dissonantly chaste, considering what they were up to not ten minutes earlier.

“Have a good night, Spock,” he murmurs against his lips.

“Likewise, Doctor.”

It’s not until hours later, while he’s finishing his report, that it hits McCoy how that last kiss had nothing to do with sex.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

“You’re doing it wrong. It ain’t gonna work.”

Spock attempts to hold back a sigh. At least, McCoy _thinks_  he’s attempting. And failing.

“I am adopting the exact protocol described in the manuscript.”

“It was described wrong, then. You need more reagent.”

“Scientific advancement is based on replicability of experimental findings—”

“Just add the reagent, Spock.”

“—which can only be ensured by careful reproduction—“

“I’m telling you, you need more reagent.”

“—of research practices. To the letter. Doctor.”

McCoy throws his hand in the air. “Oh sure, what do I know? I only wrote the original paper your precious manuscript was based on.”

“My precious manuscript, as you refer to it, sought to rectify several of the limitations inherent to your study, and was a marked improvement—”

“It was derivative. At best.”

“Scientific rigor is of paramount importance in biomedical research.”

“Spock, if you like scientific rigor so much why don’t you take it and shove it—”

Something hits the floor of the lab and makes a metallic, jarring sound a few feet away from them. Spock and McCoy both fall silent and turn to examine the disturbance. Every single person in the lab (seven… no, eight of Spock’s minions, all junior science officers, all wearing blue uniforms) has stopped working in favor of staring at them, eyes stupidly wide, jaws dropping as they stand uselessly with equipment in their hands.

“What?” McCoy barks at them, at the same time as Spock’s cool, “Is there anything you require to complete your work?”

They all drop their gazes and turn away, making a show of fiddling furiously with the materials on their benches.

 

~

 

Sometimes in the past few weeks, never openly discussing it, he and Spock both trained they quarters’ doors to recognize the other. McCoy did it to spare his neighbors the sight of Spock waiting outside of his cabin a couple of times per week, hand raised to the chime, as well as to spare himself from unwanted questions. Spock did it because… who knows why Spock does anything?

When McCoy enters Spock’s quarters, he’s standing in front of his desk, back as straight as rule, staring at a PADD with the pinched expression he usually reserves for very aggravating and unfathomable things, like birthday parties, or meatloaf, or people who use the word theory and hypothesis interchangeably.

“I will be with you shortly,” Spock tells him absentmindedly, and McCoy rolls his eyes, a little because of the store clerk attitude, but mainly because Spock’s quarters are not exactly full of entertainment possibilities. If one doesn’t count Spock himself, of course, who has definitely been providing McCoy with countless hours of high quality entertainment.

He tries to amuse himself by studying the Vulcan landscape, but there’s only so much time one wants to spend staring at pictures of a planet they saw fold into itself without being able to do anything about it. When he turns to check on Spock he’s still scowling, his neck is bent into the PADD.

It beckons to him, that neck. The soft, black hair at the nape. The shoulders, broad and tapered. If someone did this to him while he’s working he’d chew their head off, but before he can think better of it he finds himself standing behind Spock, arms looping around the Vulcan’s torso to press his front to his back. He can’t help but taking a bite of the soft skin at the base of throat.

Spock’s breathing hitches, but he doesn’t protest. “Don’t mind me. Finish whatever you’re doing,” McCoy tells him, his breath fanning the crook of Spock’s shoulder. He licks the spot he just talked into, just for fun, and slides his hand underneath Spock’s uniform, selfishly palming the swells and lines of his abs. Spock’s skin flutters in response to his touch, and his knuckles tense white around the PADD.

 _Like that_ , McCoy thinks.

A few encounters ago, four or five, or six, hard to say now that this thing they’re doing is regular enough that McCoy can't measure days by the number of times they’ve done this anymore, he caught himself running his hands over Spock’s limbs in a way that could only be described as possessive. Not that he’s possessive about Spock. That would be ridiculous. Spock’s body, though… McCoy is reasonably sure Spock’s not having sex with anyone else, so who cares if he feels like a child who called dibs when Spock is naked in front of him.

“It is impossible to continue my work when you do that.”

“Will you look at that.” McCoy’s words are muffled into Spock’s shoulder. “Commander Spock. Unable to do work.”

“An increasingly frequent occurrence—” McCoy moves his hips against Spock’s ass, letting him feel his erection, “—since you persist in distracting me.” The last few words are significantly hoarser than the beginning of the sentence.

McCoy’s hands slides up further, touches Spock’s nipples. Surprisingly sensitive, he has learned. Spock doesn’t disappoint and whimpers faintly. “You know, if you didn’t want that damn blow job, you could have just walked out of the storage room.” And to prove his point, he lets his fingers stray downwards and cup Spock’s already hard cock.

Spock is an insufferable pain in the ass, but at least he knows when he has lost.

It goes pretty quickly after that, like it always does, and McCoy loses himself a little, like he always does. He puts his hand on Spock’s lower back and presses until he’s angled just _perfect_ , and then unfastens both their pants and brings himself off between Spock’s cheeks, leisurely, sweetly, while Spock’s heart beats solid under his right hand, and Spock's cock seeps come on his fingers for a long time.

It’s right there, an unsaid that lives in Spock’s moans, in the way McCoy draws blood when he bites Spock’s shoulder next to his uniform, the knowledge that McCoy wants to fuck Spock to the point that he thinks about little else, and that Spock wants McCoy to fuck him just as much. But that would require a more frank conversation than they’re probably equipped to have, and what they just did… it’s enough. It really, really is enough.

When they’re both done, McCoy sighs between Spock’s shoulder blades, reluctant to let him go. “That was nice.”

Spock doesn’t reply, but he drops his chin and folds his arms around his torso, effectively trapping McCoy to himself. As if he wanted to let go.

“If you come to sickbay I can help you with this,” McCoy says, licking and savoring the spot where he bit Spock, and then two inches to the side, and two inches further, until he’s kissing the back of Spock’s ear.

“It will not be necessary,” Spock answers, lifting a hand to protectively cover the bite.

“Don’t come crying to me if it gets infected and your arm falls off,” McCoy replies without much heat. His cock, sandwiched between his own stomach and Spock's lower back, feels snug and safe. Fantastic. This is fantastic. He doesn't particularly want move. Maybe he can outsource his standing-up to Spock for the rest of his life. He's Vulcan and all, it's no biggie for him. “Did you get come on your PADD?”

“Negative.” A pause. “Although very nearly.”

McCoy smiles against the base of Spock’s neck. “Please, tell me it’s not one of the shared ones.”

“It is my personal PADD.” Spock is leaning back into McCoy a little more.

“At least there’s that. What were you working on? It sure looked like it was ruffling your feathers.”

“Doctor, I do not have feathers to be ruffled.”

McCoy just sight theatrically and tightens his arms around Spock’s torso. Spock relents.

“Feedback forms for the junior science officers. They are due tomorrow.” As if on cue, he wriggles free of McCoy and takes off his uniform jersey, using it to wipe first himself and then McCoy, who tries hard to block out the domesticity of the whole thing.

McCoy’s face is artful surprise as he refastens his uniform pants. “And here I was, thinking that you loved telling people that they’re bad at their job.”

“I merely state the facts, Doctor.” He looks squarely at McCoy.

“Next time you can regrow your bronchial tissue on your own, then.”

“I look forward to the challenge,” Spock tells him, but his eyes stray to the PADD.

McCoy’s curiosity is piqued. “So, what’s the big deal with the evaluations?”

“There is no deal of any dimension involved, Doctor.”

“For the love of god, Spock.” McCoy crosses his hands over his chest and leans a hip into Spock’s desk.

Spock hesitates, and then tells him, without taking his eyes off PADD. “Usually Nyota proofreads the forms before I submit them, but today it is hers and Jim’s sixth month anniversary and I do not wish to disturb her.”

McCoy frowns. “Has it been six months already?” Holy Christ, _has it been six months?_ Since he and Spock… he dismisses the thought.

“It has. Today on the bridge Jim shared with me his plans for the night in graphic details.” If Spock could cringe, he’d be doing it. McCoy sure is.

“So, what does she do? Check your spelling? Comma usage?”

Spock gives him one of his looks. “In the past, there have been instances in which my feedback was received with… distress by my subordinates.”

McCoy tries not to laugh. “You made them cry.”

Spock sighs. "In multiple occasions.”

“What did you say?” McCoy is enjoying himself a lot.

“As I explained earlier, I merely stated the facts. However, it has been indicated to me that the language I used might have made the feedback I offered…”

“Savage? Vicious? Harrowing?”

“…insensitive.”

 _No shit_. “I bet. You know what I do? I dilute the criticism with some praising. One good thing for every bad one. That’s what my mama did with me and my siblings, and look how great we all turned out.”

Spock doesn’t seem convinced. “Praising is illogical.”

“Oh boy, you’ll be a wonderful parent.”

Spock ignores him and moves to walk around the desk. “If you’ll excuse me, I will have to go back to my evaluations.”

McCoy shakes his head, still smiling. Since when does he smile this much? And in Spock’s company. Hell must be getting chilly. “Hey. I’ll help you.”

“Pardon?”

McCoy shrugs. “I can do whatever it is that Nyota usually does. My medical staff ain’t crying in the bathroom the day after evaluations.” That he knows of, at least. “And I’m not doing it for you, I’m doing it for myself, so my Med Bay doesn’t get crowded with junior science officers with post-evaluation PTSD. Or with Vulcans who got their kneecaps shattered by their subordinates.”

Spock just looks at him suspiciously. McCoy raises his eyebrows. “Unless it bothers you to get help from me.”

“Why should it bother me?”

“The hell if I know. You are bothered by weird things.”

“I am not.”

“Spock, I’ve seen you lose it over double negations or the misuse of ‘whom.’” _Or me standing two feet away from you._

For a second Spock looks like he’s going to deny it, but then he just says, “Very well.”

McCoy grabs the PADD and goes to sit on the couch with a sly smile, where Spock joins him a few moments later with a mixture of apprehension and resignation in his eyes.

It’s the most fun McCoy has had in ages.

 

~

 

“Spock, I swear to god, if you try to leave this Med Bay I will sedate you myself, and I will enjoy every second on it.”

Spock, damn him to hell, does not look in any way deterred and continues tying the laces of his boots. “I have no doubt you would, Doctor, but you have nothing that would have such an effect on Vulcan physiology at hand, and I am confident that by the time you obtain it I will be long gone.”

McCoy steps closer, thinking that maybe he just hasn’t been yelling enough. Maybe Spock developed a hearing impairment down on the planet. “Are you out of your Vulcan mind? We have no idea what they shot you with. It could be any kind of slow acting substance. You could drop dead three hours from now, and I swear I will dance on your grave.”

Spock is unfazed. “Then being in the Med Bay would not prevent my death, and the only change will be that the experiment I must check on immediately will not have been supervised. I see no incentive to remain.”

For a split second, McCoy is sure that he’s going forcibly push Spock down the bed and restrain him. He opens his mouth, ready, to bark at the orderlies to get here stat, and then his anger dissolves in his worry for Spock’s wellbeing.

He sighs heavily. “Chapel, can you leave us for a minute.” It’s not a question, and he waits until her steps sound far enough.

McCoy stares at Spock irritably for five, ten seconds, trying not grind his teeth. “You are the most stubborn son of bitch I’ve ever met.” His voice is pitched low, mindful of the medical staff milling around the Med Bay.

Spock’s eyebrow climbs over to his bangs. “I will not deign that statement with an answer.” His tone matches McCoy.

“You must have finally driven me crazy, because I’ll cut you a deal. I’ll let you go, to the nonnegotiable condition that you spend the night in my quarters tonight. So that I can keep you under observation.”

It’s clearly not what Spock was expecting hear, based on how his eyes widens and he suddenly looks up from adjusting his uniform. Truth be told, it’s also not what McCoy was expecting to say. But he’s not about to let Spock, or anyone else for the matter, leave his Med Bay when the risk of complications is unknown. Spock studies him for so long that McCoy starts feeling uncomfortable under his scrutiny, as if _he_ were the unreasonable one.

“I can sleep on the couch, if that’s the issue.”

Spock wets his lips, still chapped from the freezing temperature of the planet. “That seems pointless, at this juncture.”

“Then just get the hell out of here, get someone to take care of your experiment, stop by your quarters to pick up the work you need to do so badly that it’s worth endangering your Vulcan life, and go to mine. I’ll be off in forty minutes.”

Spock looks at McCoy searchingly. “Very well,” he says at long last, and is out of the Med Bay before McCoy can change his mind and hypo him unconscious.

McCoy just stands in front of the now-empty biobed, wiping at his face.

Messy.

That’s what this whole thing is becoming.

Messy. Never hook up with the Vulcan first officer of the goddamn ship you’re stationed on, or your life will become as sticky as molasses. A cautionary tale by Leonard H. McCoy, MD.

When he gets to his quarters it’s actually two hours after that, thanks to that mousetrap that Scotty calls Engineering, and Spock has taken over his desk, pouring over PADDs as if he hadn’t spent most of the day unconscious. The first thing McCoy does is raising the temperature by ten degrees, and then he turns to Spock.

“Up,” he barks, waving a tricorder, and quite uncharacteristically Spock stands and lets McCoy collect his data, keeping the whining to a minimum.

“Glad to find you still alive. Despite you very best efforts, I might add.”

Spock gives him a long-sufering look. “Doctor, may I—”

“No, you can’t go back to your cabin.”

“I meant to ask whether I may use your replicator.” Spock’s tone is dry.

“I don't believe you for a second, but sure. Make yourself at home and use whatever you need. Except for the door. Consider yourself a prisoner.”

Spock walks to the replicator and produces two mugs of tea, handing one to McCoy.

“Ain’t this cozy?” He nods in thanks and accepts it, only to splutter after the first sip. Goddamn Vulcan tea. From back at the desk, Spock can't quite successfully hide a smile.

They spend the next hour ignoring each other, Spock’s hands flying over his PADDs as he probably does something relaxing like answering the mystery of black holes, and McCoy writing up the report over the engineering shitshow while trying not give away that maybe fifteen percent of Engineering, tops, hasn’t been drastically and illegally modified by Scotty. It’s tricky enough that he barely notices when Spock stands and changes into his pajama, which sports what has got to be seven different Starfleet insignia. Talk about organizational commitment. As Spock takes off his pants, McCoy pointedly doesn’t let his gaze stray to his ass. Spock’s not here to hang out, but as a patient. The most obstinate, bothersome, pain-in-the-neck patient McCoy’s ever had and probably he’ll ever have, and yes, he’s excluding Jim, but still, only a patient.

Without saying a word, and with considerably less awkwardness and uncertainty McCoy would have predicted, Spock walks to McCoy’s bed and lies down as close to the wall as possible, unmistakably leaving enough room for someone else to lay down.

All in all, tonight could have been way worse. And not only because Spock’s still alive. Neither of them has died of awkwardness, either. McCoy congratulates himself on his plan being successful thirty minutes later, while he changes into sweats and a t-shirt, lowers the lights to fifteen percent and gets into bed.

“A Batman t-shirt, Doctor?”

McCoy startles when he hears Spock’s voice. “If you tell anyone, I’ll categorically deny it.”

“I doubt anyone would believe me, anyway.”

They are silent for a second.

“It’s a present. From my nieces,” McCoy offers defensively.

“I see.”

“Why do you even know about Batman?” McCoy turns on his side, facing Spock, who is lying neatly on his back. It’s not on purpose. This is just the position he falls asleep in, every night. A simple coincidence. “Did you have a BatVulcan growing up?”

“I am half human, Doctor. I erroneously assumed it would be in my medical file,” Spock deadpans.

“Oh, it is. And also that you have a Ph.D. in advanced smartass sciences.”

Spock’s eyes remain closed. “My Ph.Ds are in Astrophysics, Molecular Biology—”

“Spock,” McCoy interrupts him, but his tone not snappish for once. He feels remarkably less annoyed at Spock than usual, lying next to him like this. Hard to be confrontational when one is cozy in bed, with someone emanating pleasant warmth not one foot away. “When did you read Batman?”

“My mother,” Spock starts, and then falters, and McCoy wishes he didn’t know how to interpret that. “When I was a child, she would bring back old comic books whenever she and my father would go to Earth on ambassadorial duty.”

“I bet they must have seemed pretty illogical to you. What with the capes and the hair gel and glasses disguise.”

The corner of Spock’s mouth lifts a millimeter or two. Enough for McCoy to notice from his position. “Quite so. Although I must say, Superman was far more illogical than Batman.”

McCoy thinks it through for a minute. It’s weird to imagine Spock as a child, and yet it renders him oddly more approachable than the impenetrable, pedantic, workaholic image he usually projects. It makes McCoy actually stop and think how hard it must have been, to be from two different planets at once, especially when they're pretty much as different as two planets can be. Plus, McCoy has always had a soft spot for kids, and the idea of a small Spock reading comic books, all eyes and pointed ears, is unbearably…cute. Christ, he just used the word cute.

“The idea of an off-worlder all by himself on earth has got to be scary, if you’re young and Vulcan,” he says cautiously.

Spock shifts until he’s on his side, mirroring McCoy’s position. He tucks his head against the pillow.

“Indeed. I found it most disturbing, Doctor.”

Spock’s t-shirt has shifted up at his hip, revealing a smooth slice of pale skin. McCoy tries to not look at it.

“You don’t have to call me doctor, you know. I mean, we’re…” _In bed. Right now. But also, generally, doing this thing. Where I make you come and then you make me come_ , _and then we talk or we meet in other places and we argue, and yes, sometimes I genuinely want to strangle you, but all the time I just really want to…_ McCoy is relieved he didn’t even attempt to finish that sentence.

Spock looks at him with uncertainty. Like this, with his hair falling away from his forehead, deep shadows playing around his features, he’s ridiculously handsome. No wonder Chapel, and Ensign Whatshername, and McCoy himself spend all that time staring at him. No wonder whatsoever.

“Would you prefer I use your first name?”

Not really. No one calls him Leonard. Actually, not true. Plenty of his female acquaintances and friends call him Leonard. His ex wife, and Christine and most of the other nurses when they’re not on shift, and Nyota sometimes. His sisters and mother. Thing is, to his male friends he always been McCoy, not that he’s sure Spock really qualifies. Hell, he thinks of himself as McCoy. ‘Bones’ has, unfortunately, stuck and spread more than he considers ideal, but he’s not about to suggest people call him that.

Ah, well.

“Sure,” he says, shrugging clumsily from his position.

“Very well.”

McCoy briefly wonders if Spock is just not going to call him ever again.

Spock looks really sleepy, and McCoy has been yawning for hours. It would be the perfect opportunity to say goodnight, and close his eyes so that the creamy skin of Spock’s hip is not in his field of view anymore, and ignore Spock for the next six hours or so, and yet… McCoy is reluctant to fall asleep. This is nice. Something he hasn’t done in… ever, probably. Jocelyn wasn’t exactly the whisper-before-bedtime type.

“So, did any of your minions try to break your kneecaps?”

Spock is _basically_ smiling, though his eyes are closed. “The have not. Although they might turn against you when I inform them that you’ve been referring to them as my minions.”

“I'll just disclose that I’m the only reason phrases like ‘severely lacking’ got switched into ‘room for improvement’.”

“I am still fascinated by the fact that two expressions carrying the same meaning can have such different effects on people.”

McCoy smiles. “Illogical humans. Take us or leave us.”

It’s probably because Spock still has that little smile of his. Or because it was a long day, and everyone seemed to need medical attention of some type. Or maybe it’s the relative darkness. Fact is, McCoy can’t really think anymore of a reason he shouldn’t be touching the Vulcan’s skin, since he’s displaying it so… tantalizingly. And once his fingers are there, swirling on Spock’s hip, Spock doesn’t seem to mind, not at all, and so why should McCoy stop?

“I believe I shall take you,” Spock answers softly after a few moments, and before McCoy knows it, they’re both asleep.

 

~

 

He wakes up unsure of where his body ends and Spock’s begins, and if either of them is surprised about it after the heat they have generated every time they so much as looked at each other in the past few months… well, they’re both fools.

Spock is awake, too, and judging from the poke McCoy can feel on his hip, and the way his tongue his making his way McCoy’s mouth, remarkably turned on.

Good.

McCoy palms his ass and turns them so that he’s on top of Spock, who whimpers in acceptance. He takes Spock’s hands in his own and pins them to each side of his hand, then thinks better of it and slides one between their bodies, freeing both their cocks and stroking them at the same time with his hand, one against the other. Spock lets his head fall back on the pillow. McCoy can relate. The pleasure is _sublime_.

“Can you come like this?” He husks, sucking at a spot on Spock’s chin.

“Yes.” Spock’s voice is about an octave lower than usual.

“Do you want to?” McCoy’s voice falters infinitesimally and he swirls a thumb over both their heads, smearing their fluids together. “Because if you’re not dead set on it, I could fuck you.”

He doesn’t think for a second that Spock is going to say no, and he’s not disappointed. Spock’s eyes widen and his free hand wraps around McCoy’s nape to press his head lower and deliver a kiss that screams _please, please do_. McCoy pulls back and looks into Spock’s eyes searchingly, and then nods. “Clothes off.”

McCoy’s quicker that Spock, which is perfect, because it leaves him just enough time to get the lube he brought back from Med Bay some time ago out of the bedside drawer.

Not that he’s been consumed with thought of coming inside Spock for weeks.

“Come here,” he tells Spock when they’re both naked, and Spock does until they’re kneeling in front of each other, eyes already hazy, hands running over McCoy’s chest and back, uncaring of the fact that he’s human and has already broken a sweat.

As soon as the first digit slides inside Spock, McCoy needs to grab the base of his cock to avoid making a mess of Spock’s abs. Spock bites his collarbone and whimpers, either in pain or in pleasure. McCoy knows he needs to be paying attention to this, to be able to tell them apart, but at the moment his tunnel vision is leaving little room for thoughts that are not about the tingling in his balls.

Spock’s tight. Tight good, because it’s gonna feel fantastic once McCoy’s in. And tight bad, because it’s gonna feel fantastic once McCoy’s in, and he was ready to come five minutes ago. McCoy’s busy wondering exactly how terrible an idea this was, and whether they should just stop and put it off, when Spock pushes against his finger and suddenly his index is almost completely inside.

They are definitely not stopping.

If there is something McCoy knows how to do, it’s finding a prostate. Which comes in handy, judging from the way Spock’s breath speeds up and his grip around McCoy’s bicep intensifies until it must be leaving bruises, as it allows McCoy to open him up with little discomfort.

“I,” Spock moans, and McCoy would chuckle if he could remember how to.

“Just one more minu—”

Spock’s hand squeezes his balls, and McCoy dislodges his fingers, throwing him a dirty look. “Fucking impatient Vulcans.”

He doesn’t insult Spock’s intelligence by pretending not to know that he’s never done this. Instead, he puts a medically ridiculous amount of lube on his dick and then sits at the top of the bed and leans back against the wall, legs slightly wide, his cock an angry shade of pink.

“Let’s do it this way. So you’ll be able to control…”

Spock understands instantly and straddles him, knees around his hips. In this position, Spock is maybe two or three inches taller than McCoy, who has to arch up to kiss him. McCoy doesn’t mind. Really, he doubts he could mind anything at this point. He angles his head up and licks Spock’s throat, trying unsuccessfully to keep his hands to himself.

To be honest, he’s not quite sure whether this particular position is better that any other, but the access it gives him to Spock’s shoulders, and chest, and the way he can see that his greenish cock is already leaking on McCoy’s stomach, before they have even gotten started, makes him pretty fucking proud of his choice.

Spock holds his eyes for a moment, and then positions himself, bearing down on McCoy’s dick. The pressure is immediate, and frankly alarming, and the most erotic thing McCoy has ever felt in his life.

He’s going to come, like this, after less than five seconds of fucking. He’s going to come, or he’s going to thrust up and hurt Spock, which will mean no sex with him ever again, and that’s the worst possible outcome he can imagine, even worse than the Romulans overtaking the Federation. He grits his teeth, and clutches his hands in the sheets, until he’s calmed down and the air feels marginally less thin.

He doesn’t slide inside smoothly at all, which is not surprising, not just because McCoy’s big, but because this is Spock, and why would anything be easy with Spock? His body seems confused, simultaneously diffident and eager, clasping desperately at him but also resisting McCoy’s entrance as if it were an hostile invasion, and it’s more minutes and sweat than McCoy could have imagined before he’s finally nestled inside.

But. Once he’s there.

Spock gasps against his lips, and they are looking into each other’s eyes, and… _okay_. They’re okay.

They’re both as hard as a nail, and when Spock starts rocking McCoy let’s out a laugh, dumbfounded by the pleasure.

“This is,” he gasps in Spock’s ears, abs rippling with the effort of keeping still. “I should have fucked you a long time ago.”

“You shoul ha—ah.” McCoy’s hips flex just right, if involuntarily, and he hits what he clearly needed to hit. He fists Spock’s dick. The amount of precome trickling down is nothing but flattering.

“Well,” he forces out, still smiling, “how do you like having my cock up your ass?” Spock moans, arms around McCoy’s shoulders. “Satisfactory? Fascinating? Logical?”

They’ve barely begun, and Spock's movements are getting more and more frantic. Every time McCoy’s cockhead bumps against that spot deep inside Spock’s body, the Vulcan clenches around him, forcing him to squeeze the base of cock. Spock sure looks _wrecked_. Utterly lost to sensation. He wonders if he’s even aware that he’s currently redefining sex for McCoy.

“You," Spock pants in McCoy’s ear, and then falls silent, mouth partially open, eyes shut.

“This feels pretty—logical to me,” McCoy breaths out, words choppy, his hand on Spock’s dick becoming more and more insistent as his thrusts become deeper. McCoy’s not even pretending not to move anymore. He’s never figured himself for much of a dirty talked, but this… this is taking every single filthy thought he’s had about Spock and putting it right in his frontal lobe. “You know what I love?” He is palming Spock’s ass, spreading it open, touching the rim of Spock’s hole and feeling himself slide in and out. It's out of this world. Spock is biting his throat, a hairbreadth away from losing it completely. “That I’m gonna come inside you so deep that it'll take you so much work to get me out—”

They shatter at the same time, the force of McCoy’s orgasm so overwhelming that for a long time he’s sure he’ll never be able to come down from it. When he does, eventually, his mind has been wiped clean, and the only thing he can focus on is Spock, twitching in his arms, murmuring, “Leonard,” in his ear.

 

~

 

What exasperates McCoy the most is not that he has to accompany Jim bar hopping during shore leave because Uhura needed to stay on the ship for one thing or another.

Not precisely.

No, what makes him really, really mad is the fact that he keeps thinking about how he’d rather be on the stinking ship, fucking Spock.

It’s unacceptable.

And Jim’s not helping. Not with the way he talks about missing the hook-up scene (which is far-fetched, given that only yesterday McCoy saw him looking at Nyota like the sun rises from her head), and wants to try to live vicariously through McCoy by getting him to make a pass at anything that breaths and that is even remotely good looking.

“What about the Andorian? She looks pretty hot for being from an ice planet.” He’s wiggling his eyebrows, looking inexcusably pleased of his own pun. He’s wiggling his _freaking_ eyebrows.

“Jim, for the last time. No. Quit it. I’m thirty-five, and I just got off a double shift. I ain’t going to hit on anyone.”

“If you don’t, you’re gonna regret it when we’re back on board,” Jim scolds him.

“I doubt it,” McCoy mutters sourly.

“Hey. The human over there. Come on, she’s your type.”

McCoy sighs. “First, I don’t have a type. Second, what would it take to get you to drop it, Jim?”

Jim looks into his drink pensively. “Mmm… How about you never stab me with a hypo again?”

“Sure. I’ll just let you die of tetanus next time you get chased and bitten by an alien flower.”

“Ok,” Jim concedes, angling his head, “How about you hand me over your whiskey stash?”

McCoy pins Jim with a flat look. “Ain’t happening. We both now that I would have to pump you stomach two hours later.”

Jim nods. “True, true. Ok, you know what? I have another idea.” He leans into McCoy, his weight on his elbows. “How about you just admit to me that you've been fucking Spock, and I let the whole thing go.”

It’s not precisely like the feeling of a bucket of ice being poured over his head, but… not that dissimilar, either. McCoy leans back in his chair, turns to stare at the crowded bar counter for a couple of seconds, willing Jim away from his table and, possibly, his life, and then just turns to face his best friend.

“How long have you known?”

Jim shakes his head. He’s smiling, but it’s not his usual carefree grin. It’s tense, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Wrong question, Bones.”

McCoy is taken aback for a minute, and then it dawns on him. “How long has Nyota known?” he amends.

“A few weeks. I have to say, once she pointed out all the little signs to me, I felt pretty stupid.” McCoy can relate. He’s feeling a little stupid, too. “Why didn't you tell me?”

 _Why_ didn’t he tell Jim? The thing is, the idea of telling Jim, or Nyota, or anyone else on the ship, has never even brushed against his mind. Which doesn’t make him feel proud at all, especially now that he can see the flicker of hurt poorly hidden behind Jim’s cornering tactics.

“Because it's not—we're just…”

“Oh, come on, Bones. I know the both of you. If you’re fucking, you're not _just_ anything.”

“We are. We are just fucking. And we work together. You would have made a big deal out it, and made it damned uncomfortable for everybody in the process. I mean, look at how well this conversation is going, it’s shocking that I didn’t wanna have it before, right?”

Jim doesn’t rise to the bait. He takes a sip of drink, then another, and then just asks, “Why are you fucking him?”

McCoy huffs a silent laugh. “Well, I’ll be. I never thought the day would come for me to have to explain sex to James T. Kirk,” he replies, all artful surprise.

“Come on, Bones. Humor me. Why?” Jim’s tone is edgy.

McCoy shrugs. “I don't know. Have you looked at him recently? Why _wouldn't_ I?”

“I asked you why you _would_ ,” Jim insists.

“Because.” McCoy throws his hand up. “Because I'm horny, and I followed my idiot of a best friend on a spaceship so that I could save his harebrained ass every two days, and I can't be choosy? That a good enough reason for you?”

Jim nods, clearly unconvinced. Of course, they both know that about half of what he said is lies. McCoy’s never been _that_ horny, and there are five-hundred people on the Enterprise. Jim doesn’t pick this particular battle, though. “Ok. Why do you think he's fucking you?”

“You know, Spock and I don’t exactly have weekly relationship talks. As this is not a relationship.”

“Try and guess, then,” Jim says sweetly.

McCoy wouldn’t take this shit from anyone else. He needs to stop making exceptions for Jim. “Beats me. Misery loves company? He thinks I’m hot? To get access to the medicine cabinet?”

“Yeah, they all sound logical reasons Spock would have to screw you.” McCoy just shrugs again, unsure what to say. “You've been fucking him for months and you don't know him at all, do you?” Jim’s tone is starting to really annoy him.

McCoy leans forward, holding his best friend’s eyes. “Jim. Stop being a jerk. What do you want from me?”

Jim sighs, and then wipes at his face, looking defeated. “Nothing. Nothing, I just don’t want this to end with hurt feelings and bitterness. For you. Or for him.”

“Spock's Vulcan, he doesn't—“

“He doesn't what?” Jim interjects immediately. “I think we've all had abundant proof that whatever you're thinking of saying is not true.” They have. And McCoy’s not sure why he even started the sentence, aside from a half-hearted need to contradict Jim. His best friend shakes his head. “You know what, it's not my business. This whole thing is fucked up enough that I don't need to play marriage counselor between my best friend and my wife's ex. Just... just think about it. That’s all I ask.”

McCoy nods, at a loss for words.

It’s not as if he doesn’t think about it all the time anyway.

They stay like that, silent, sullenly nursing their drinks for at least five minutes. And then it hits McCoy.

“I can't believe you just lectured me about relationship stuff,” he mutters in his bourbon.

Jim ducks his chin to hide his smile, but the line of his shoulders is shaking with laughter. “Yep. Me, giving you an earful. We’ve both seen it all now.”

“I've got half a mind of letting Uhura know how many STDs I've had to treat you for, and just get popcorn and observe her wrath.” But he's smiling, and so is Jim. With his eyes, too, this time.

Jim’s laughter takes some time to die down. “So,” he tells McCoy, still smiling, “you like Spock.”

McCoy doesn’t say anything for a beat. “This is the most I’ve ever liked him, for sure,” he mutters. _This_ is quite a bit of liking, too, he has to admit. Since he’s a little drunk, and since Jim asked him to think about it, and since he’s being a little honest with himself.

“Maybe we can go on double dates.”

McCoy cringes visibly, and goes to get them another round, the sound of Jim snickering following him all the way.

 

~

 

Not twenty-four hours later, McCoy’s hands are in Jim’s thoracic cavity, where they stay for six hours.

Jim flatlines once. Then twice. The third time it happens, McCoy thinks, for the first time, that he might not be able to bring him back.

By the time surgery is over, Jim’s not out of the woods by a long shot. McCoy stands by his biobed, beside Uhura’s chair, focusing on her dry eyes and thin, mashed lips. The sight of Jim’s unconscious form is unbearable.

He notices Spock’s presence from the window in the private room and excuses himself, ordering a nurse to keep her eyes on Jim.

“The admiralty wishes to talk with you. You will receive a subspace communication in your office in ten minutes. The are likely to ask questions about the outcome of the surgery, so make sure that all the relevant recordings are available.” Spock’s tone is level. Half a year ago, McCoy would have thought him completely unaffected.

Half a year ago, McCoy was a fool.

McCoy nods. “Uhura is…”

Spock closes his eyes for a moment, and then he nods too.

They stand like that, just looking at each other, without knowing what to say, for a second and for an hour. Then, McCoy grabs Spock’s nape and kisses him. A hard, sweet, desperate kiss.

When he pulls back, Spock’s forehead falls against his own.

“He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.”

“I believe you, Leonard.”

 

~

 

It’s weeks before Jim recovers fully, though he goes back to pre-injury pain in the ass levels long before then. McCoy wonders constantly what it says of his life that having his best friend permanently stationed in his Med Bay makes for one of the worst professional experiences he’s ever had.

“This is what I have to deal with _every day_ ,” Uhura tells him, her expression delighted.

Spock is Acting Captain, of course. While remaining Science Officer and, to all intents and purposes, First, because Scotty’s not about to emerge out of his steel cave to produce a duty roster, or to write reports about systems allocation.

McCoy barely sees him for two, then three weeks, and… yeah. It’s not helping his mood, for sure. Though he does get a lot of time to think.

Which, to his own surprise, he uses.

The day Jim is discharged, McCoy’s enormously pleased to find that Spock’s quarters still recognize him, and even more pleased when Spock arrives from his shift after only thirty minutes.

He had expected to wait longer. Brought a work PADD, just in case.

When he sees McCoy sitting at his desk, Spock looks surprised, but pleasantly so, and McCoy feels a heartbeat skip, a little because of Spock’s expression, a little because he’s pretty sure there are only two other people on this ship who would be able to read Spock as well as he can. It's a warm, woolly sensation.

“Hey.” He smiles at Spock as he stands. “Jim’s discharged.”

“I have heard. He stopped by the bridge to let Lieutenant Uhura know of his plans for the night in graphic details.” Spock winces a little at the memory. “He was not considerate of my Vulcan hearing, or of the proximity of my work station.”

McCoy rolls his eyes. “He probably wanted you hear. Damn infant.” His tone is fond, despite his best efforts.

Spock nods. “Your logic is sound. I will need a shower, if you are amenable to wait.”

It takes a second to hit home, the reason Spock thinks that he would need a shower to be in McCoy’s company. Not that it doesn’t make perfect sense, considering their past. Still, it stings.

“No, I… I don’t want you to shower.” He notices Spock’s confusion. “Or do, dammit, I couldn’t care less. I just—“ He has thought about this. He has had weeks to carefully choose the best words, and yet all that comes out is, “Is that all it is? Is that what…What do you think we are doing?” He is waiving his hand between the two of them, in what is probably an obscenely vague gesture for a Vulcan.

Though, to his credit, for once Spock doesn’t pretend not to understand. He hesitates, eyes fixed on McCoy’s, and then says cautiously, “We occasionally engage in acts of sexual nature.”

_Right._

McCoy lowers his chin, and swallows around his constricting throat. “Right,” he says. He _did_ ask. “You know what? I just got off a double shift and discharging Jim was almost as exhausting as having him in the sickbay. I'm gonna turn in.” He heads for the entrance, casually placing his hand on Spock’s shoulder as he walks past him. “Have a good night, Spock.”

He's almost engaged the doors’ sensors when he hears Spock's voice. “I...Doct—Leonard. I…” Spock is… stammering. And then he goes completely quiet. McCoy turns to look at him, mildly worried, and Spock continues, “I think of you often. And I experience feelings. Towards you. When we are together. And… and when we are not.” By the end of the sentence, his cheeks are as green as McCoy has ever seen them. His eyes, however, are calm, if tentative. “I have for a long time. Is this an appropriate moment to inform you?”

It takes a minute for McCoy to realize that he's been standing there, by the door, with his mouth open. “I... yes. Yes, it is.” His voice is inexplicably hoarse. He clears his throat. “Well, that, um… It definitely sounds like… yeah. Since you… you know. I mean, even if you are, um, Vulcan…”

All these choppy, unfinished sentences. Again. They had been doing so well.

The corner of Spock’s mouth lifts in an indulgent smile. “Leonard, I have listened to you use the word ‘Vulcan’ in several conversations over the years, and I can say with certainty that it does not mean what you think it means.”

Mccoy laughs. They have somehow ended up standing in front of each other, and his head is spinning a little, even as he feels more grounded than he has in years. He wants to say _something_ to Spock, racks his brain to find the words.

And comes up short.

Though Spock doesn’t seem to care, since he takes McCoy’s hand and envelopes it in his own, turning it until their palms are pressing together. And so McCoy thinks it, thinks it very hard, and very loud, hoping that Spock will hear it.

It has got to be the one perk of having a Vulcan boyfriend.

“There is no way in hell this is gonna work,” McCoy says, still smiling.

“Agreed.” They are _both_ smiling. At each other. It’s unprecedented, it must be. Paradigm-shifting.

“I asked you not to agree with me, Spock. It makes uncomfortable.” McCoy dips his chin, and then looks up again. “Tell you what. Prove me wrong, instead.”

Spock’s eyes twinkle, and he does.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who has commented and left feedback, you're the best!


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